You reach for it before you even open your eyes.
The rectangle.
Still charging from the night before, it’s the first thing you touch
Before you stretch,
Before you speak,
Before you even remember who you are.
And what’s so urgent?
What couldn’t wait?
Someone’s breakfast?
Someone’s filtered smile beside a beach you’ll never visit?
None of it changes your life.
None of it makes you whole.
But still, you scroll.
You’re committing your life to nothing.
You say things like:
“I only use it to stay connected.”
“I filter out the noise.”
“I’m not addicted.”
Every addict says the same.
“I can stop anytime.”
“I’m in control.”
If you have to say you’re in control—you aren’t.
Why keep lying to yourself?
This isn’t just about wasting time.
This is about wasting yourself—
your emotions,
your attention,
your capacity to feel alive.
Let’s get painfully honest.
You’re not scrolling because you’re curious.
You’re scrolling because you’re avoiding.
Avoiding the silence.
Avoiding the emptiness.
Avoiding the dull ache of a life you haven’t shaped.
You’re not looking for anything.
You’re trying to forget something.
The screen gives you just enough to keep going,
but never enough to be full.
It doesn’t feed you.
It pacifies you.
It numbs you.
You call that living?
Here’s what’s worse:
No one will stop you.
The apps will keep loading.
The likes will keep coming.
People will keep commenting.
And no one—not one person—will ask if you’re okay.
They’ll engage with your feed,
not your soul.
So now, it’s your move.
You read this far.
Are you really going to say,
“This doesn’t apply to me”?
Will you still reach for that rectangle tomorrow morning,
believing it might finally give you something real?
It won’t.
It never did.
That screen isn’t waiting to help you live.
It’s just watching you wither.
Look up.
Not at the screen—
but at your life.
Now.
Before it scrolls past without you.
— TK
