Today I looked it up again.
I shouldn’t have.
It was just “information.”
That’s what I told myself.
One article.
Then another.
Then a video I didn’t fully watch.
What’s strange isn’t what it shows.
It’s that I repeat it.
I open the same page again.
As if it had changed.
It hasn’t.
But I read it anyway.
I realize I already know which paragraphs will make me uncomfortable.
And I still look for them.
I close the tab.
I open it again.
I don’t know why.
It feels like something is missing when it’s closed.
And when it’s open… nothing really fixes it either.
It just repeats.
I’ve read the same sentence multiple times today.
Not because I don’t understand it.
But because I want to see what happens when I read it again.
I don’t write it down.
But I think it.
That’s already enough.
I tell myself it’s curiosity.
But it isn’t fully that.
There is a part that doesn’t ask.
It just returns.
I look at images.
Then I stop.
Then I go back.
No surprise.
Only a strange familiarity.
As if I’ve already been here before.
Without remembering when.
I pause on one screen.
It wasn’t the one I meant to open.
But I’m already inside.
I don’t close it.
I wait.
And while I wait, I realize something worse:
it’s not that I’m discovering this.
It’s that I’m checking how it was already affecting me before I understood it.
That makes me slightly ashamed.
Not of what I see.
But of how often I repeat it.
I close everything.
Or try to.
My hand goes back on its own.
I don’t know if it’s habit yet.
Or something slower.
Something forming without telling me.
Before sleeping I think about stopping.
But I don’t think about when.
Only about opening it again tomorrow.
And that’s the part I don’t say out loud.
Not even here.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it the hand was already sedimented in the lime before the pressure 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 stand upright is sustained without an object the record cannot close I should…
