There is something I never write down.
Not even when I’m alone.
Because once it is written, it feels more real.
More embarrassing.
Harder to justify.
It started as curiosity.
That is what I always tell myself.
Curiosity.
Reading.
Watching.
Understanding.
Nothing more.
Just that.
I think it was true at the beginning.
I can remember that part.
It felt light.
Almost intellectual.
As if I were studying something external.
Something that had nothing to do with me.
But then I started going back.
Without a clear reason.
Not to learn.
Not exactly.
I went back because there was something in the way things were structured.
In the phrases.
In the idea of waiting.
Of not deciding.
Of receiving an instruction.
And following it.
Without thinking too much.
I remember the first time I realized it wasn’t just curiosity.
I was sitting there.
White screen.
Too much brightness in a dark room.
My hand resting on the mouse without moving.
And I didn’t close the tab.
That is the strange part.
I didn’t close it.
I could have.
Easily.
But I stayed.
As if something in me was waiting to see what would happen if I didn’t move.
Then I did it again.
And again.
I don’t know when it stopped being occasional.
I only know it started taking more space than it should have.
Not in my time.
In my head.
That is worse.
Because time can be justified.
The mind cannot.
I started feeling a kind of discomfort.
Small at first.
Like a crack.
But I didn’t stop.
I kept going back.
Sometimes without wanting to.
That is what confuses me.
Without clear desire.
But returning anyway.
As if part of me had already become automatic.
And the strangest thing wasn’t what I was reading.
It was what I felt afterwards.
A kind of tension.
Not exactly excitement at first.
Something more unclear.
A mixture of curiosity and shame.
Like I was looking at something that shouldn’t interest me this much.
And yet it did.
That is what doesn’t fit.
In my mind I should be someone who controls this.
Who understands it.
Who classifies it and moves on.
But I don’t.
I am not moving on.
I am repeating it.
Sometimes I close the tab.
Sometimes I don’t.
Sometimes I open another one immediately.
As if closing one was just a pause.
Not a decision.
I remember a specific night.
Nothing special happened.
Just me.
The room in silence.
The monitor light on my face.
My body still.
Too still.
And that feeling of returning to the same thing without being able to explain why.
It wasn’t what I was reading.
It was that I was returning.
That is what I struggle to admit.
I am not only interested in the content.
I am interested in the structure.
The dynamic.
Waiting.
Receiving.
Not deciding.
Letting something external set the rhythm.
And that embarrasses me.
Because I don’t know why it calms me.
It shouldn’t.
But it does.
And the more I think about it, the more I go back.
As if thinking about it strengthens it.
As if understanding it doesn’t close it.
But opens it further.
Sometimes I close everything.
I stand up.
Go get water.
Come back.
And I am already sitting again.
Without having decided anything.
Just repeating the same gesture.
As if it wasn’t mine.
As if it had already started before I even thought about it.
I don’t know exactly when it began.
Only that it continues.
And that it is harder to stop than I would like to admit.
Even here.
Even now.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it…
