we expect the sun to rise and set. we know that life, like a story, has an arc. now, the endless scroll—the feed—is all we expect. no longer do we yearn for completion; we itch for the endless—stimulation, youth, beauty.

we itch, like one may for a drug—never scratched, always left wanting. making your skin crawl, your twitches showing. you reach for it, tapping it awake, hunting, pecking, scrolling. the feed—endless. our addiction—calling.

choice, once ours. now, predetermined. fed to us, recommended—forced. we buy what we seem to want. we want what others seem to have. our problems have solutions. the solutions do not solve problems.

the feed scrolls vertically, life is lived linearly, experienced in a loop, endlessly.

Share

thoughts shifting—fleeting, insignificant to important; they play games. second-guessing the good; hoping for the bad.

if only they could see the years of self-doubt, the months of depression, the instances of dark considerations.

would they recognize my facade? would they vilify my thoughts? would they only see chaos?

tired of hiding, but afraid to step into the light.

light exposes—reveals; but can it cleanse? cleanse me of this mess, these feelings.

is cleansing another form of hiding—repressing; wash them away, just for them to grow back?

they’ll regroup, build up, form a static; quiet, then an endless hum—noise.

my mind buzzes, pops, crackles; no one can hear it—see it.

they must only see the calm, they can never see the chaos, they will never see me.

Share

at an early age, i closed myself off. there was a need for me to be strong, dependable, and private. i thought it would be temporary, but the act soon became a reality.

gone was the innocence of childhood, which should have shaped my adult self. rather, i skipped the entire process, embodying something i created.

i’ve shaped others’ perception of me around strength and stoicism. but all the while, inside, i am screaming.

i feel this need to tell, to show everyone what lies beneath. the fear that they will not recognize, accept me, forces the urge back.

held back, repressed, guarded.

if i am open, will they close me off? if i am exposed, will they cover me? if i am seen, will they avert their eyes?

these questions prevent words from being spoken, but not written.

here, on this page, i can be seen—be heard. accepted, maybe.

the screaming will not manifest in the spoken word, but it will be written. because writing is the ultimate act of vulnerability and i am a writer.

Subscribe now

it’s 15 to 6am as i walk into the gym. looking around, there are a few sheep, like myself, sweating before the sun rises. as i walk to my torture device of choice, i take stock.

the skinny blond girl, relentlessly climbing a hill on the indoor cycle. the screen, horizontally laid on the handlebars, with an instructional video playing, from what looks like an influencer.

the quaffed, gelled hair guy, stretching in the corner. screen grasped vertically. scrolling through endless headlines, never stopping to tap in and read one.

the couple, basically twins, walk in and go their separate ways. the guy heads to the leg curl machine, the girl to the elliptical. both pop in earbuds, turn their screen sideways, and get to it. what, i don’t know. each spends more time craning forward and resting than they do exercising.

stepping onto the stair stepper—i dial in my settings and get to it.

15 minutes in, sweat on my face and starting to run down my arms, the spaz enters.

the door beeps, i await an entrance. but the door times out. the silhouette at the door pockets something, then the door beeps again. this time the door flies open and he comes barreling in.

charging to the treadmill, he throws his bag on the floor, steps onto the treadmill, presses the speed and incline buttons what seems like a thousand times. the beeping of the buttons echoes throughout the room.

he starts walking. hoodie on, neck craned forward, a single hand grasping the treadmill and another clutching his screen.

a few minutes pass—the couple have been resting, the quaff is still stretching, and the blonde still climbing. the spaz sets down his screen for a moment, only to throw off his hoodie and reach for the screen again.

this cacophony of sounds and movement continues for 10-15 minutes, all while i sweat, climbing stairs.

then, as if all at once—the blonde rests, the quaff switches stretches, the couple leaves, and the spaz jumps off of a moving treadmill and rushes to the dumbbells.

talking starts to murmur, then is full volume. are people talking to each other? i look around. no, no. why would people converse? it’s just spaz.

alone, near the dumbbells, on the phone. talking during and between sets, spaz takes a call. the call is loud. i could hear every part of his side of the conversation if i didn’t just turn my headphones to full volume.

i finish my time on the stair stepper. drenched, i clean the machine and work my way over to the dumbbells. here, spaz is at full volume. my headphones cannot fully suppress his conversation. luckily, he hangs up shortly after and goes to do sit-ups.

as i am about to put up my weights, i look over to my left. he is doing sit-ups. in his right hand, clutched, is his rectangle. the screen is on at full brightness. as he gets to the top of every set, he swipes up. his eyes widen ever so little with each swipe.

between sets, spaz paces, neck craned, thumb flicking up on his screen with each step.

the exodus begins.

first, quaff, head high and confident. strides out as if he just finished something monumental. gym bag in one hand, his screen in the other.

next up is the blonde. without looking too exhausted, she layers up and casually walks out, pressing buttons of completion on her screen.

lastly is spaz. after cooling down on a treadmill, he presses the emergency stop button and snatches his gym bag as he flies off the back—already in full stride. clutching his screen, looking down, he nearly runs out of the gym.

leaving me to finish the last reps of my workout in an eerie silence. i pack up my things, dry my face, and walk out—with the simple click of the metal door latching behind me—all without a screen in sight, slightly more awake.

Subscribe now