The Glowing Rectangle

It sits on the nightstand, pulsating with a silent demand. A blue notification light, blinking like the eye of a dormant beast. Touch me, it whispers. Someone might have liked your shadow.

It is 2:00 AM. The world is asleep, or pretending to be. But here I am, bathed in the sickly blue glow of the rectangle, scrolling through the curated lives of strangers. Photos of food I will never eat, vacations I will never take, and opinions I never asked for.

My thumb has a mind of its own. It flicks upward, a repetitive motion that mimics a prayer/worship ritual. Scroll, pause, judge. Scroll, pause, envy. It is a slot machine that pays out in dopamine hits, but the house always wins. Unlike a casino, you don’t even lose money here; you lose time. Small chunks of your life, minutes turning into hours, vanishing into the digital void.

We are not the users. We are the used. We are the batteries powering this vast, algorithmic matrix. And the most terrifying part? We love it. We panic when the battery dies. We feel phantom vibrations in our pockets. We are tethered to these small machines by invisible umbilical cords of data.

I should put it down. I should close my eyes and drift into organic dreams. But the light blinks again. Just one more check. Just to be sure the world hasn’t ended while I looked away.