Zodiac Depths

You call it checking in. It's rummaging through a cemetery with a flashlight. Every scroll is a small betrayal of your present, a ritual that keeps a dead thing animated. You feed yourself crumbs and call it closure. Stop curating pain. Close the tab. Exhale like you mean it. Let silence answer the questions your stalking keeps loud.

Algorithms reward obsession; memory does the same. You are moonlit tide, not a historian chained to an exhibit. The past wants witnesses to stay alive. It will flicker, beg, pose. Deny it audience. Future you is starving while you feed echoes; your weird belongs to the next scene, not the rerun. Redirect the ritual: cook dinner, water plants, text the friend who actually shows up. Put your thumbs to work for oxygen.