Scrolling Addict

Being addicted to scrolling is making palaces of razor blades, beds of stone, and mosaics of broken glass. We romanticise our pain until it becomes art itself. 

We go home tired and overworked to our razor blade palaces. Collapse exhausted on our bed of stone. Wake to make a coffee while standing on tiles on broken glass. Then we wonder where is our comfort?

Being addicted to scrolling is to laugh in the face of uncertainty, remain composed in the face of anguish, and shame the face of fear. 

We go home to our houses we do not own. We are desensitised to the atrocities committed by our country’s government. We don’t tell our boss we have anxiety, or depression, or ADHD, or autism. Then we wonder if we are asking for too much. 

We allow ourselves to be married to the man, beaten by the system, and coerced into lifelong servitude. 

I stare at my floor. I see the edges soften and the shine scuff until they are nothing but pieces of sea glass. I look up and see my mother, cooking us both dinner. My friends covering my bed in blankets and pillows. I still live in a palace of razor blades, and every now and then my shoulder clips the edge of a doorway; but when I try to rest my bed is soft and my stomach doesn’t growl.