I am addicted to my phone
Like all addictions, it's not easy to admit. But I am. Addicted, I mean.
Every time it runs out of battery, when I forget to charge it before going on public transport or fail to bring a power bank, I am secretly relieved.
Now, I think, I'll have to use my brain.
Not for long, though. As soon as I get home the phone gets charged again. And again, and again, and again.
How many of my thoughts are made for me?
How much of my outrage is baseless and farcical?
Am I just a collection of algorithmnically generated opinions, optimized based on predictions of my age, gender, and social class?
All of my childhood is stored in a bank on a server, immortalized in chat logs on Instagram.
I've had the same account since I was thirteen.
All you'd have to do is scroll up.
And up, and up, and up.
Then, you'd find it.
All of me.
Every person that I was, and am, and ever will be.
Online. Forever.