I don’t keep reading because I understand more.
I keep reading because I understand less.
And that makes me feel ashamed.
Because it shouldn’t work like that.
It started as curiosity.
That’s all.
Something small.
A quick thought that didn’t feel important.
“just to see what it is”
“just to understand”
“just once”
But it wasn’t once.
It was several times.
And what’s strange is not the repetition.
It’s how easy the repetition became.
Too easy.
I don’t feel “aroused” at first.
It’s slower.
More confused.
It feels like the body reacts before I decide to react.
And then I try to explain it.
Always after.
Always too late.
Sometimes I close everything.
Really.
I close it.
I tell myself it’s over.
That I don’t need it.
But minutes later I’m there again.
I don’t know how I return.
There is no clear decision.
Only a kind of tilt.
Like something pulling slightly harder on one side than the other.
And the worst part is this:
when I return, I don’t feel relief.
I feel something else.
Something uncomfortable.
Like tension.
Like curiosity mixed with something I don’t want to name properly.
Because naming it makes it real.
I start noticing my body more than usual.
Not while I’m doing it.
But afterward.
When I’m no longer doing it.
That’s when it appears.
The slight heat.
The restlessness.
The feeling of having been too aware of something I can’t fully explain.
And then comes the contradiction:
the curiosity doesn’t decrease.
It increases.
But it’s not clean.
Not calm.
It’s curiosity already mixed with repetition.
With checking.
With need.
“just to understand”
but I don’t even know what I’m trying to understand anymore.
Sometimes I stop in the middle.
Literally in the middle.
And think:
this doesn’t make sense.
this is not me.
But even that thought doesn’t stop anything.
It just adds another layer.
On top of everything else.
And there is a strange moment I can’t fully describe:
when I’m not looking at anything,
but I still feel like something is happening inside me.
no screen.
no stimulus.
just me… and something that doesn’t fully turn off.
And that’s where the strangest contradiction appears:
I don’t keep reading because I understand more.
I keep reading because understanding less keeps me more inside it.
And that scares me a little.
Not a clear fear.
More like a constant discomfort.
As if something is slowly occupying more space than it should.
quietly.
without noise.
And the worst part is I don’t know when it stopped being curiosity.
Only that it already isn’t just curiosity anymore.
The neck I am not moving it I should…
