I wasn’t going to look at it again.
I thought it with almost technical clarity.
As if my mind could simply close the process.
“That’s it. I understand it. It’s not for me.”
And for a few minutes, it worked.
My body even relaxed.
As if I had actually made a decision.
But then came the small gesture.
The meaningless one.
Opening the phone.
Just looking.
Just checking.
I don’t know when that became something else.
I don’t keep reading because I understand more.
I keep reading because I understand less.
And that sentence no longer feels like an idea.
It feels like an excuse watching me from outside.
I didn’t want to do it.
That’s the strange part.
There was no clear desire.
Just a soft pressure in my chest.
Like something insisting without words.
I opened it again.
Just a few seconds.
I told myself: “five minutes and I’ll close it.”
But I didn’t close it.
It’s not that something defeated me.
It’s worse than that.
There was no fight at all.
There is a part of me that finds this humiliating.
Another part of me is waiting for it.
And I don’t know which one is speaking right now.
What’s strange is this:
the more I try to step away,
the more the curiosity expands.
And the excitement is not direct.
It’s unstable.
Not clear pleasure.
A tension that never resolves.
Like my mind doesn’t know where to place itself.
Today I told myself it was the last day.
I even wrote it down.
“Last.”
With certainty.
With intention.
But my mind doesn’t delete what it feels.
It only postpones it.
And then it returns as if nothing happened.
I catch myself imagining things I didn’t plan to imagine.
Not full scenes.
Just fragments.
A sense of surrender.
A voiceless command.
A strange calm in not deciding.
And then shame.
Immediate.
Like being caught.
I don’t understand when it started to change.
Or if it was always like this.
Maybe there is no change.
Maybe it is only repetition, getting stronger each time.
I don’t keep reading because I understand more.
I keep reading because understanding less is the only thing that keeps me inside.
And that should be a sign to stop.
But it isn’t.
It feels like an entrance.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it I should…
