mare

I’m concerned my phone is destroying my brain, fragmenting my perception of the world so much that I often feel like I’m trying to understand life while standing in the middle of a house of mirrors.

As J. P. Hillobserved earlier this year, “Social media platforms originally fostered some degree of connection between people, now every social media company primarily functions as a content distrubtion platform...we’re meant to passively absor monetizable content, and ideally buy something...most of us are meant to sit, scroll, and watch.”

For many—if not most—of us, the internet and modern technology are how we measure our existence. If you don’t exist online, are you even real?

The creator economy, once defined by glossy feeds and sponsored posts, is quietly pivoting towards substance. Insight now matters more than aesthetics. Intelligence is becoming influence.

Millennials were sold a future founded on web expansion and advancing technology and promised it would last. None of it did. Newer consoles can’t play CDs (and many cars no longer have disc drives), floppy discs are as obsolete as paper maps, old hard drives are unreadable, and the Internet is ephemera suspended in a cloud, just swirling... See more

So much of my life, so much of myself—my art, my work—relies on my constant connection to the digital world. To completely remove myself from it seems impossible, futile. My FOMO would perhaps kill me before my lack of income did. Is it even possible to remove myself from the algorithm, or is my being so deeply intertwined in it that deleting my... See more

Like the fiction in The New Yorker , Song presents the domestic plight of a petit-bourgeoise woman, with incidental detail and dramatic ironies which hint at some statement on the nature of society which is never resolved. Lucy broke up with John because he couldn’t afford city parking, she likes Harry because his money makes her feel valuable, she... See more

I’ve started to realize that I wake up each morning in a perpetual emotional present, all the moments of real happiness or sadness or loneliness or madness of the previous day blurry and inert, like a story I’ve heard secondhand from someone I don’t care about.