I
was infatuated by social media, a media with which I felt extremely safe. I did
not have to worry about my outfit, expression, intonation, and body odor.
Seriously, I could walk over everyone’s timeline with my worst physical
appearance unjudged; I could stalk anyone in the face of earth unnoticed; and I
could edit or delete what will or had come out of ‘mouth’ uncaptured.
There
is a paradox in social media. It is the least form of social activity someone has
ever invented. I got it when I was socializing
in my room, alone; when I was chatting
to someone a far, while uttering no words to my friends close by; or when I
felt it easier to post on my timeline, the specific thing I wanted a specific
person to keep in mind.
I
was a part of the society who felt the gradation and range of a changing era. No
generation had ever witnessed the beauty in this ugly alteration. My hormones were
trained and stimulated by positive reinforcement of a mere ‘like’. I was
turning into a narcissistic person with excessive self-chauvism whose ego could
only be satisfied when I shared everything I felt, thought, ate, and got the ‘like’
as the societal affirmation that would make me crave for some more.
Timeline
is but an eternal bucket to and from which people defecate and eat and defecate
and eat again. I had always been with that bucket, unaware that my body was
getting frail; my hair is turning white; yet I did not know how long I have
been holding that bucket.
In
a late afternoon, my grandson asked me a help for his homework on History. I
felt so dumb for I could not answer any of the questions. I had always been
good at History and Wars. At that time, however, I did not even know the
history of the tweet war in the House of Representative.
I
was rescued when I parted from my devices. I was buried down the earth. My
friends and relatives were up there; I saw them sharing their condolences on
their timeline, and it was a relief that many people posted about me and got
many ‘likes’.
I
was a trending topic for twenty-four hours.
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