The Church of The Glowing Screen

I was in the metro today, squished between a guy blasting bad techno and a woman clutching her Louis Vuitton like a newborn baby. A quick glance around, and it hit me: every single person was worshipping at the altar of their phone. Heads down, faces illuminated by the glow of tiny screens. It wasn’t just boredom—this was devotion.

It’s everywhere. At restaurants, couples sit across from each other in silence, their connection reduced to Wi-Fi signals and Instagram likes. Romance, these days, is just two people scrolling together, separately. It’s almost poetic if it weren’t so tragic.

And don’t even get me started on holidays. Christmas morning used to be about ripped wrapping paper and hugs. Now, it’s an iPhone camera shoved in your face: “Smile! Wait, do it again for the story.” The tree sparkles, but no one sees it because they’re too busy chasing validation from strangers online.

We’ve traded “living the moment” for documenting it. Reality isn’t enough anymore unless it’s curated, filtered, and hashtagged. And before you say, “But it’s just how the world is now,” ask yourself: when was the last time you truly looked around? Watched people. Smelled the air. Felt something without reaching for your phone to immortalize it?

We’ve become addicts, and the drug is always in our pocket. They say the first step to recovery is admitting the problem. But let’s be real—no one’s quitting. Not when there’s another notification pinging, another meme to scroll past, another dopamine hit waiting on the screen.

So, next time you’re out, try this: put the damn phone down. Look up. Engage. Be awkward. Be present. Maybe you’ll notice that life, messy and unfiltered, is still happening out there. But then again, who am I kidding? You’re probably reading this on your phone right now.