Once, when I was a kid, I wondered what happened after we turned off the TV. Where did the small people go? What did they do until morning, when they had to perform again? I was a kid—I said it.

But now, the question is different: What do we do when the performances never stop?

Lately, something in me has been fraying—overstimulated by the endless scroll of curated lives: homemade bread, minimalist homes, blooming garden beds. Beautiful things. Harmless things. And yet afterward, I often feel… drained. Depleted. Cranky. Wrapped in a low hum of anxiety that clings like static.

For a long time, I blamed this unease on the usual suspects—money stress, future worries. But those have always been there, in some form. Yet this tension feels newer. Heavier. And I’ve begun to wonder: what if the real source of stress is the constant window into everyone else’s life?

Maybe it’s not the content itself, but the comparison it sparks—quiet but relentless. Whether I admit it or not, I want their seemingly perfect lives. The ease. The calm. The filtered peace. A stranger in Germany builds a raised garden bed—and writes a book about it. A yogi shares their aesthetic morning routine. A family celebrates something small and sweet. And part of me aches to have what they seem to have.

Of course, the desire for connection, recognition, belonging—it’s nothing new. Humans have always craved that. But back then, performances had limits. The symposium ended. The bathhouse closed. People walked home beneath the stars. There was quiet. There was a return.

Now, the curtain never falls. The show never ends. The audience lives in my pocket.
And worse—our ancient need to be seen, to belong, is no longer just a part of life. It’s a product. It’s harvested, measured, sold back to us in likes and loops and reels that never stop. What we crave has been commodified. Exploited. Yes—exploitation is the word.

So I revolt.
I’m taking a break from social media.

They say a month of fasting can return your brain to its baseline. I want that. I want my silence back.

I imagine myself walking through a quiet forest, toward a still lake—Toba Lake. I’m with a like-minded friend. No smartphones, just dumb phones and a small kettle of tea. No updates. No validation loops. Just presence. Just us. Just now.