I said I was going to stop.
I reasoned it out clearly.
As if it was simple.
As if understanding it would be enough to shut it down.
“This is not what I want.”
That’s how I thought it.
Very clean.
Very final.
And for a moment, it worked.
It really worked.
I remember the feeling of closure.
Like something inside me had agreed.
Done.
Settled.
Over.
There was no struggle.
Just a strange kind of calm.
Even I was surprised at how easy it seemed.
But that calm didn’t last.
I don’t know when it stopped being a decision.
Only that it came back before I noticed.
Not as a clear thought.
But as an inclination.
Small.
Almost ridiculous.
Open a tab.
Just look.
Just for a moment.
No intention.
No meaning.
And then it was no longer “starting again”.
It was as if I had never left.
The strange part isn’t that it returns.
The strange part is that my decision is still there.
Intact.
But weightless.
Like a sentence written somewhere that no longer has gravity.
I tell myself:
I already stopped.
And I still do it.
I don’t understand it.
And that’s the part that takes up the most space.
Because the more I try to explain it, the less it fits.
And the less it fits, the more it returns.
It’s not that I don’t want to stop.
It’s that I can’t find the moment where I was supposed to have stopped.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it I should…
