Writing about writing gets old really fast. And yet, that’s all I’ve done the last few months (years?). I write about writing because my brain can’t seem to churn out anything else. So here I am, meta-writing as a last-ditch effort to regain my attention span. And still, I’m actually writing this because I’m procrastinating a long email, and I don’t want to fall prey yet again to the life-devouring, time-sucking monster of social media.
When I ditched Twitter and Threads came along, I foolishly thought I had finally found a safe space for distraction, one I could use sparingly. However, that’s like expecting a new flavor of Takis to be healthier and less addictive. It’s just a new variety of the same garbage I can’t get enough of.
I hate, hate, hate what social media has done to my mind. I used to be a good writer. Even if I had actually been a bad writer, I used to write. I used to have real hobbies where I had agency, rather than letting time fly out of my life, idly scrolling down, taking in whatever the algorithm wants to throw at me, no questions asked. Last weekend, while sipping coffee, Cavorite pulled out his journal, a tiny notebook filled with quick scribbles in pencil. There, he painted pictures with his words, and for a few seconds I felt as if I were joining him at a café in Antigua, Guatemala. How beautiful, a life recorded. I wished I had something like that.
But wait—I do! It’s right here. All I need to do is focus. When I was a kid, I used to dream that I had the ability to fly, but was only able to actually do so when I believed I could. That’s how writing feels now. Judging by the number of paragraphs preceding this sentence, maybe I managed to lift my feet off the ground, if only a few inches, and only for a little while.