I was addicted. Sort of.
It does sound alarming when put this way – addicted.
In social media. The phenomenon that used to define my days, and simultaneously who I was.
Every day, I appeared clever, amusing. Every day, I simulated unforgettable moments captured in photos. It was as if I performed for an audience, expecting to be applauded with attention.
I wish I knew how delusional I was, especially in the brittle age of adolescence. A time when my attitude was fully influenced by my surrounding peers and the presence or lack of their immature approval. Instead, I was choking in the growing pile of insidious likes, aiding the departure of meaning.
As a teenager, and then in my early twenties, I had difficulties understanding that people had their own lives to care about, and the very details of mine were irrelevant at best. I failed to realise that holding me dependant and glued to a screen was somebody’s profession. To encourage me to consume and be consumed, by stimulating me to share a filtered life, painted on a feed.
We were handed these glowing screens and so focused we became. At the brightness of a piece of glass. A glow in the dark, potentially misleading and without question, intrusive and deceiving.