The Possession of a Preoccupied Mind

Hey, how you doin'? 

No, I am not rewatching Friends for the zillionth time. 

It's just that I hate to start traditionally. 

I'm in a conflicting situation: some of my readers like my conversational tone, but apparently it isn't quite acceptable to the publication agencies.

Two of my best-appreciated stories were rejected because of their tone.

The rejection felt like a jolt that I could practically feel in my head, especially the second one. 

Since that day, I've been caught up in a vicious loop of boredom because I stopped writing anything new.  

I also called off a new transcription gig that promised me some good money, but the client was a tad bit of a scoundrel in his behaviour. 

So here I am, having voluntarily stepped away from both writing and work, and somehow managing to be bored out of my mind.

Pretty efficient, ain't I?

I'm in that peculiar state where I don't want to do anything to kill time, yet somehow want the time to pass joyfully.

I don't feel like watching anything, nor do I want to engage in a conversation, whether textual or telephonic. 

The best alternative available to me is to sleep my way through it. 

But then I remember that I'm mentally hyperactive at all times, so even sleep doesn't seem like a particularly reliable escape.

But that's not the reason I chose to write to you. 

The reason I felt the breaking off the loop is because of a simple piece of advice I got from a friend. 

A piece of advice I desperately want to warn you against.

As I was aimlessly wandering, disheartened by the recent failures, I sought the most forbidden shoulder to cry on. 

And rightly so, the shoulder never proved me wrong. 

The dreadful advice I received to combat my boredom?

Relentless use of social media, chief among them being Instagram without logging out. 

And I am in a cesspool of reels, stories, and DMs ever since. 

And the worst part?

I enjoy it.

To the point of feeling morbidly sick.

It's like something takes over me if I scroll for more than five minutes. 

Feels very much like I'm possessed. 

If not by a demon, then by algorithms, which, apparently, have a peculiar talent for showing me anything I watch more than once.

The reels I send to my peers, the stories I put up.

Oh, the stories!  

They are the worst. 

The moment you hit the share icon is the moment Instagram starts to consume you more than you consume Instagram. 

Yes, you've understood it right. 

The view counts. 

It's so embarrassingly obsessive to check every passing minute that I'd rather hold myself back than explain just how often I check them.

Mostly because admitting it out loud would be even more embarrassing.

This is exactly the point where I realised my obsession has turned into possession. 

Possessed by my own insatiable appetite for more view counts.

And this is also the point where I realised I need to be exorcised. 

And so begins the warding off of the demon.

Luckily, I just know the right person who can effectively release me from this Instagramic possession. 

So I went to this other friend of mine who has the wisdom of an owl. 

Regarding my predicament, my friend suggested many ways, but to no avail.

Limiting the screen time, turning off notifications, uninstalling. 

Nothing that I haven't tried and failed at. 

You know they say knowledge is power, and power corrupts.

Well, that seemed to be my curse. 

So how do I get out of this possession? 

By understanding who the real demon is?

Here is what I gleaned: the problem isn't Instagram. 

It is my preoccupation with it. 

I tend to get a little engrossed in things.

This helps in certain things like, well, reading and writing. 

But it is not that rewarding in other things. 

It's interesting the way my mind attaches itself to things.

Give me a book, and I can disappear into it.

Give me something to write about, and I can spend hours inside it.

Give me a question, and I will probably chase it until I've exhausted every possible answer.

Well, with the exception of maths. 

That tendency has never really been my enemy.

In fact, some of the things I am proudest of have probably come from it.

The problem begins when that same tendency finds something that never reaches a natural stopping point.

My preoccupation with Instagram never tells me, "You've had enough."

It gives me another reel.

Another story.

Another notification.

Another view.

And, if you're particularly unfortunate like me, it gives you another reason to check the views. 

There is no conclusion.

No final page.

No satisfying point at which you can say, "That's enough for today."

There is only more.

But I live in a time where "less is more."

Therefore , I thought, why not shift my preoccupation towards that idea?

Less is more.

And perhaps, just perhaps, my whole objective from now on should be to sustain the essence of that line.

In all fairness, a complete exorcism of Instagram is highly debatable. 

And even something I do not want either.

What can be done is to be less possessed by it. 

And that is how I am going to redirect my preoccupation from now onwards.

The less time I spend on Instagram, the more exorcised I will be.

But never fully.