I shouldn’t be reading this again.
I said it quietly.
I’m not sure if I said it yesterday too.
I think I did.
I’ve opened the same page again.
Just to check one sentence.
The sentence is still there.
That calms me for a second.
Then it doesn’t.
Because I shouldn’t need to check.
I close the laptop.
Leave it for a few minutes.
Come back.
There’s no clear reason.
Only the feeling that something changes when I’m not looking.
I’ve started noticing one word.
“Submission.”
I don’t remember when I first saw it.
But now I see it everywhere.
Or I think I do.
I search for it again.
It’s not where I remember it being.
I moved it.
Or I misread it.
Or I imagined it.
I open the history.
It isn’t there.
But I’m certain I read it.
That’s the strange part.
The certainty.
Not the doubt.
The certainty of something I can’t prove.
I close it again.
Open it again.
The word appears.
Somewhere else.
Not exactly the same page.
But the same idea.
I start to feel something in my body.
Not an emotion.
More like a slight tension in my hands.
As if they’re waiting to click again.
I started counting how many times I come back.
Then I stop counting.
Because the number doesn’t reduce the need.
It only confirms it.
Today I did something worse.
I opened the same image three times.
The third time I already knew what I would see.
That’s what bothers me.
That I knew before.
Not before opening it.
Before deciding to open it.
I tried to remember when this started.
There is no beginning.
Only small checks.
One page.
Then another.
Then back to the first.
As if I were verifying something that hasn’t happened yet.
What unsettles me most isn’t what I see.
It’s that I start recognizing it before I see it.
As if I’ve already been here.
Without remembering arriving.
Now I’m writing this and I realize something.
While I write, I’m also thinking about going back to check again.
Not out of curiosity.
Not exactly.
Out of verification.
As if not looking would also be a way of looking.
And I don’t know when that changed.
Or if it was ever different.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it the load was already sedimented in the lime before the weight touched the tissue the taste of cold copper and chalk on the tongue is a residue of the system’s lag the pulsing inertia of the flesh that can no longer grow tired is sustained without an object the record cannot close I should…
