Is This Real Life?

this is a small thought that I just wanted to put into words.

Was this real life?

The thought came suddenly, like wind sneaking through a window left carelessly open. I sat still, uncertain whether I was dreaming or simply remembering—because somewhere behind me, far behind me now, were the days of childhood. Those untouchable, golden hours when everything was vibrant, full of breath and color. I used to see red not as red, but as fire. Blue was ocean, sky, freedom. The world was vivid and alive, painted by the boundless brushstrokes of my imagination.

Back then, imagination was not a distraction. It was an ally. A shield and a sword. I built kingdoms out of cardboard and entire galaxies from the stars on my ceiling. My thoughts danced freely—wild and beautiful—because no one told them they couldn’t.

But now, that same mind—my weapon once—had become the thing that haunted me. It whispered too much. It twisted joy into questions and questions into shadows. I looked around me and felt the quiet unraveling of everything I once believed was real.

Autumn leaves spiraled down at my feet, caught in the soft circling wind. I watched them spin like forgotten memories, delicate and temporary. And just as quickly as they arrived, they vanished. I blinked.

Gone was the apple I had imagined just moments before—crisp, red, perfect. Gone were the leaves. Gone was the moment.

And in their place, only the screen remained.

A pale light cast its glow across my face. A small screen, so full of everything and yet... somehow, nothing at all. It pulled at me, silently at first—look, it seemed to whisper. Stay. And then louder, more insistent, like a tidal wave against my spine: STAY.

And so I stayed. I scrolled. I clicked. I chased some fleeting version of fulfillment. Something quick. Something easy. A hit of happiness in the form of attention or distraction.

But deep inside, I knew I was running—from what, I wasn’t sure. The stillness? The truth?

I longed, with a sudden ache, for what we used to have—when people looked each other in the eye, when conversations weren’t broken into fragments and filtered through emojis. When birthdays meant music and movement, not stories and metrics. When people solved problems together, hands dirty, voices raised, ideas colliding in beautiful messes. Even our small inconveniences—power outages, lost keys, burnt dinners—birthed stories, laughter, and resilience.

Now, I barely looked up.

But something in me shifted. A flicker. A breath. I glanced away from the screen—just for a second. I looked at the world beyond it.

And there they were: others. So many others. Heads bowed, faces glowing, just like mine. Each of us held hostage by something we had once chosen. Connected, yet somehow lonelier than ever.

And in that still moment, I made a decision.

I turned it off.

And for the first time in a long time, I heard something that had almost gone silent.

Myself.