I shouldn’t be looking at this again.
That was my first thought.
And yet I opened the same page.
The exact same one.
I closed it an hour ago.
Then twenty minutes ago.
Then ten.
Now I’m not even sure how much time has passed.
There’s a photograph.
Nothing remarkable about it.
Not even particularly explicit.
Just someone kneeling.
I’ve looked at it so many times that I’m no longer looking at the photograph.
I’m looking at the fact that I keep coming back to it.
That’s what makes me uncomfortable.
I tried to convince myself it was simple curiosity.
That’s why I opened another article.
Then another.
Then a forum.
Then a book.
I needed to check something.
I don’t know what.
Just something.
I thought the more I read, the less strange it would feel.
The opposite happened.
Now I know more words.
More concepts.
More stories.
And I feel worse.
Because I can no longer pretend it was an accident.
There’s something ridiculous about this.
Something embarrassing.
Whenever I find a new reference, I don’t feel surprise.
I feel recognition.
As if I had been waiting for it.
As if I already knew what I was about to find before opening the link.
Last night I did something absurd.
I found an article.
Saved it.
Closed it.
Five minutes later I checked whether it was still saved.
Not because it mattered.
Not because it might disappear.
I simply wanted to see it again.
To verify it was still there.
The worst part is that I checked again afterward.
And then again.
The third time I started feeling uncomfortable.
The fourth time I closed the browser.
The fifth time I opened it again.
I don’t think it was excitement exactly.
I wish I could say it was only that.
That would be easier.
It was something harder to explain.
Curiosity.
Embarrassment.
Anticipation.
A strange warmth in my stomach.
Like knowing you shouldn’t keep reading something.
And reading anyway.
Today I cleared my browsing history.
Twice.
The first time out of habit.
The second time because I couldn’t remember doing it the first time.
For a few seconds I stared at the screen.
Trying to remember.
Not the content.
The moment.
The exact instant I decided to do it.
I couldn’t find it.
There’s a small gap.
Nothing important.
But it’s there.
And now I can’t stop thinking about it.
I think that’s the part that worries me most.
Not that I’m interested in all this.
Not that I keep coming back.
Not that every day I read a little more.
What worries me is something else.
The feeling that a part of me arrived earlier.
As if it had already started walking this path long before I consciously took the first step.
And the more I read.
The more I search.
The more I check.
The less it feels like a discovery.
And the more it feels like a memory.
My neck I should…
