Another Day in Hell
You wake up, check your phone, and the noise starts again. Not the kind of noise that’s loud, but the kind that hums in the background—constant, dull, and just out of reach. You scroll through the usual: memes, headlines that make you want to uninstall the internet forever, and the obligatory “Look at how great my life is” posts. None of it matters, and yet, you keep going.
Every day feels like a rerun, but you play along because… what else are you going to do? Sit alone with your thoughts? Yeah, no thanks.
You’ve gotten good at pretending you’re fine. Hell, maybe you’ve even convinced yourself that you are fine—or at least that you're faking it well enough. You perform your online persona perfectly, whether that means throwing out a half-sarcastic tweet or pretending to care about someone’s latest Instagram thirst trap. It’s not like anyone can tell how detached you really are. Everyone’s oversharing anyway, but even in this digital confessional, you still feel like an outsider looking in—like you’re standing behind glass, watching the world without ever really being a part of it.
No, this isn’t some grand epiphany where everything clicks, and suddenly you find your place. There’s no enlightenment coming. It’s just the same old feeling that you’ve carried with you forever—that you don’t quite fit, and that maybe you never will. But the thing is, you're not the only one feeling this way. Turns out there’s a whole legion of people who feel like they’re out of sync with both the digital and real worlds, even if nobody's really talking about it. Welcome to the club. You don’t need a membership card because, frankly, it’s not that exclusive.
So, you keep floating through your day, going through the motions like some half-engaged NPC in the simulation. Sure, you show up for work, answer the obligatory texts, like a few posts here and there. You might even throw out a quick meme for some easy likes. But it’s all theater, isn’t it? The thing is, you’re watching your life play out like a movie, only it’s the kind of movie where you’re not sure what the plot is—or if there even is one. It’s like you’re here, but not really. Floating. Detached. Half-present.
You’ve gotten pretty good at pretending it’s all fine. Laugh at the right jokes, keep up with the discourse, and play your part like everyone else. For a minute, you might even trick yourself into caring, into believing that maybe, just maybe, you’re participating in something real. But as soon as the screen goes dark, the numbness creeps back in. You’re not vibing with life, not really. You’re just... existing. Or at least, doing your best imitation of existence.
And what else are you going to do? Log off? Yeah, like that’s the solution. The idea of going completely offline sounds great in theory until you realize that the silence would be worse. You’d be alone with your thoughts, and that’s its own kind of nightmare. So, you stay. You scroll. You float through the same cycle of half-engagement, telling yourself that it’s better than nothing. But is it? Maybe not. But you’ll keep doing it anyway.
You tell yourself you’re not addicted, that you could quit anytime, but deep down, you know better. The internet is the best worst thing that’s ever happened to you. It gives you just enough distraction to stop you from spiraling, but not enough to actually make you feel connected. It’s like trying to drink water through a straw with a hole in it—no matter how much you suck in, you’re never really satisfied.
Sometimes, you’ll post something—something half-witty, half-nihilistic—and for a fleeting moment, you’ll feel something like satisfaction when the likes start coming in. It’s a cheap thrill, but it’s a thrill nonetheless.
That dopamine hit is real, but it doesn’t last. Soon enough, you’re back to scrolling, back to watching the same content repeat itself in different formats. Nothing’s really changed, but hey, at least you were distracted for a few minutes.
And yeah, there was a time when the internet felt like an escape—a place where you could be whoever you wanted, where you could lose yourself in forums or dive deep into niche corners of the web that made you feel like you’d found your people. But that was then. Now, it’s all algorithms, influencers, and endless performance. Another platform, another performance. Another dopamine chase that leaves you feeling emptier than before.
You hear people talk about “burnout” like it’s this new phenomenon, but you’ve been living in it for years. You’re not just tired. You’re beyond that. There’s a kind of fatigue that goes deeper than just needing a nap—it’s existential exhaustion. You’ve been running on fumes for so long that you’ve forgotten what it feels like to be fully engaged with anything. And yet, you keep going because what’s the alternative? Stopping? That feels too much like giving up, and you’re not quite ready for that yet.
You’ve considered taking a break—maybe even unplugging for a bit to “reset.” But let’s be honest: you know that wouldn’t fix anything. You’d still be you, still floating through a world that doesn’t quite make sense, whether you’re online or off. The weight would still be there when you came back, heavier than before because now you’d feel guilty for not having “used your time offline” productively. It’s a lose-lose situation, so you just keep scrolling. At least online, you can zone out for a while longer.
The funny thing about being terminally online is that despite all the connections, you’ve never felt more alone. You flit between communities, from one thread to the next, lurking in spaces that seem like they should resonate, but somehow, they don’t. You’re too weird for the normies, too cynical for the optimists, too niche for the generalists. You’re always on the outside, no matter where you go.
You see people building things—communities, audiences, entire digital empires—and you wonder why it looks so easy for them when it feels so damn impossible for you. They make it seem effortless while you’re over here feeling like every attempt at connection is just another swing and a miss. No matter how hard you try, that feeling of alienation doesn’t go away. Maybe it never will.
Maybe you’ve always been the outsider, the one who never quite fits. Maybe that’s just how you’re wired. And maybe you’ve gotten good at pretending you’re okay with that. But deep down, part of you still wants to find somewhere that feels like home—somewhere you don’t have to put on a mask just to get through the day.
But here’s the thing: there’s no neat resolution to this. There’s no tidy “lesson” or inspirational moment where everything clicks into place, and suddenly you feel like you belong. The truth is, this weight you’re carrying—the one you can’t quite name—it’s probably not going away. Sure, you could try logging off, going outside, touching some grass, whatever. But we both know that’s not going to fix anything.
And maybe, just maybe, this is the part where someone might suggest that you’re neurodivergent. Maybe you’ve seen the terms online—autism, ADHD, whatever—and maybe a small part of you wonders if they apply to you.
But let’s be real: the idea of being labeled probably makes you bristle. You’ve spent your entire life feeling like you don’t fit into any box, and the thought of being diagnosed just feels like another box to cram yourself into.
That’s fair. You don’t have to embrace a label if it doesn’t feel right. But at some point, you might want to ask yourself why this world feels so suffocating. Maybe it’s not you that’s broken. Maybe it’s the world. And maybe that weight you’re carrying isn’t something you’re meant to fix—it’s just something you’re meant to live with. You’re not alone in this. There are plenty of people out there, feeling just as disconnected, just as alienated, just as tired.
So keep scrolling if that’s what gets you through the day. Or don’t. It’s not going to make much of a difference either way. But next time that weight feels a little heavier than usual, just remember: you’re not the only one carrying it. We’re all here, stuck in the same loop, trying to make sense of a world that doesn’t make sense.
And if the idea that you might be neurodivergent makes you uncomfortable, well, that’s a tomorrow problem. For now, there’s another meme to half-laugh at, another feed to scroll through, and another fleeting distraction to keep the weight at bay for a little while longer.
And so, the loop continues. Post on through it.
