Hello, friend.
One day I pulled my eyes away from my computer screen, looked out the window and asked myself, “Have I really been living?”
I think I might have been on the couch for hours, scrolling endlessly on Instagram when I came across an account that showed how life looked like in the 90s. Everything about it took me back to a time where life was simple and carefree—the sepia tone, the childhood mess, the non-existence of mobile phones. The nostalgia was overwhelming.
At this time, I was posting almost every day on my Instagram account. I was reliving our honeymoon in Japan when I realised how much time and effort I put into this for so little reward.
But what did I really want to achieve?
For years, I’ve used Instagram as my digital journal, posting poetry and foregoing public scrutiny by putting my vulnerability on display. Eventually, I grew to love photography so I wanted to showcase that—a visual aid to the stories I wanted to tell.
Doesn’t nature make you feel like being a kid again?
But as social media became a muscle memory in our society, posting what I’m doing and experiencing evolved into needing affirmation, unconsciously using it as a means to continuously prove myself to an audience whose attention span is almost non-existent and who would probably forget about what I have to say the moment they swipe up.
One day I pulled my eyes away from my screen, looked out the window and asked myself, “Have I really been living?” This small device in my hands have taken the wheels of my life, making me obsessed with numbers and likes and things that don’t really matter. I was distracted from what I really wanted to do the most—to write my stories.
Flashback to my middle and high school days when at the end of the week, I would be so excited to get home because I can finally focus on writing. It would be a quiet Saturday—the breakfast spread has been cleared away, my parents off to a bible study, the computer whirring away as I wait for it to turn on and flash its blue screen. I would open Blogspot and I would write. The few photos I have of the week—from friends’ cameras downloaded off their Multiply accounts, the quality grainy but quality memories nonetheless; I have them sitting in a folder waiting to be uploaded alongside my thoughts.
I would write until my brain was emptied and my heart relieved. I would hit post, reread it a few times, and then retire to my room while my Limewire downloads music I’ve been recommended to listen to.
Me in high school, on a weekend, eager to write.
Not once did I think about likes and comments and followers. All that ever really mattered was I had an outlet and it made me happy.
It made me tell the stories my brain keeps churning everyday. It made me feel the emotions I’ve been feeling, processing it, and then moving on; content on the fact that they have been recognised, revealed, and turned into what I think is good writing.
Today, posting on Instagram to show what I did and what I thought about it feels more performative—a chore. And who likes doing chores? Even those who don’t mind it have days when they just can’t get themselves to do it.
So I stopped and took a step back. I went on Threads and was pleasantly surprised at how refreshing it feels to be back in a community of random thoughts. But I wanted to do more. I wanted to write again in a place where I can feel safe and not scrutinised.
And so here I am, writing, trying to find myself again. Hoping to tell stories the way I’ve always wanted to—not chopped up into daily Instagram posts, not worrying about how long my thoughts can be, and just letting it all flow.
When I was in fourth grade and I discovered writing, I told myself that someday I will write a book. Twenty-eight years later, with experience and grief in my pocket, the dream has not changed. If anything, I’ve just been waiting for that little push, that inspiration to actually move towards it.
Most recently I told someone about this dream and he said, “You’re not a writer if you don’t write. So just write.”
Always notice the tiny, beautiful things.