(Lights up. A lone figure, mid-thirties maybe, sits at a table, phone in hand. She sighs, puts the phone down, and starts talking—not to anyone in particular. Maybe to herself. Maybe to us.)

You know, today… I write just to stop myself from scrolling.
Insta-land. Meta-land. Scroll-ville. Whatever we’re calling it now.
I’m trying to escape it, again.

That’s the weird thing about being a writer—or a sensitive person in general. You feel everything. Too much. The little ping of a notification? It hits like caffeine to the nervous system. My nerves? They hate this habit. This itchy, twitchy, mindless swipe-swipe-swipe habit.

I’ve tried to quit. Oh, I’ve tried.
But maybe… maybe I’m not trying hard enough. Or maybe the apps are just that good at reeling me back in.

Social media overstimulates me (sighing hard)
And most of the time, I don’t need stimulation—I need rest.
Still, I scroll. One reel, one recipe, one running tip, one tiny clip of someone making sourdough or harvesting lavender or reading Murakami in a sunlit room.
It’s beautiful, it’s aesthetic, it’s… addictive.

An hour flies by. Poof. Gone.
And then I’m left buzzing. Overstimulated. On edge.
Anxious. Panicky.
I can’t think straight. Can’t make decisions. Even picking lunch becomes a crisis.
Too many inputs. Too many voices. Not enough stillness.

And here’s the cruel part: I know this.
I know what it does to me.
And still—I go back.

I deleted my Facebook account eight years ago.
A decision prompted by heartbreak and a slightly unhinged ex—true story.
Thought that would be it. But then Instagram happened.
And now it’s reels of trail runners, homemade pasta, backyard gardens, secondhand books—and somehow, even though I’m “only looking for inspiration,” I’m still drowning in it.
Even the good stuff becomes too much.

So I try to redirect.
I write. I run. I bake my own bread—yes, I became that person.
All in an effort to create instead of consume.
To pour my energy outward, not spiral it inward.

But whenever I have spare time…
Guess what my hand does?
Phone. Unlock. Scroll.

So. Starting today.
A timer. Ten minutes. That’s it.
Check in. Scroll. Ding. Out.
Then do something else. Anything else.

Because life -real life- doesn’t wait.
It keeps moving—whether I’m looking up or staring down at a glowing screen.
And I don’t want to miss it.

(They pause. Pick the phone up. Look at it. Then set it down again, slowly. Lights fade.)

By Karin Sabrina