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I can't




"Hey, are you there?

It's 3am and I can't sleep. I thought I might as well make this time more productive.

Productivity. I'm obsessed with this word. The idea of self-optimisation gives me the illusion that my body can be upgraded like smartphones if I just try hard enough. But I can’t.


I know that by now half the world is winning and the other half is sleeping. As for me, well... I'm lost. Have you ever felt lost before? Of course not. You're just a journal. I wish you could talk to me. Sometimes I do feel that you're there for me. Can you hear me?


I spent nearly an hour scrolling on my Instagram. I think I like to torture myself, or else how would you explain my addiction?


Am I looking for validation? It's childish, I know, but it seems that If I don't post a picture of a beautiful moment on Instagram, it's like that moment never happened. "I post therefore I am" has replaced the "I think therefore I am" in modern society.


I feel pressured to prove that I have something shiny and valuable. Pressured to show the world how well (and efficiently and elegantly and beautifully) I spend my time and manage myself.


There's not a single day when I don’t feel humiliated and a piece of sh%t every time I check my social media. Big Sigh. I think I need help.


I know everything is covered by thousands of layers and filters. And yet, I can't resist its seductive and elusive powers. Every day, just like a drug addict, I say it's going to be my last day on social media. I feel like a fraud. I can't stop the bloody scrolling. And swiping. And liking. And checking. I CAN’T. I'm exhausted from trying to live a full optimised life, from living life to its full potential and from being committed to improving myself. All. The. Time. The motto "Harder, Faster, Better" is killing me. I can’t…


There’s so much I need to say, but I...


Are you still there? Sorry, you must be bored. I'll come back tomorrow. Bye for now, mate."


This is an excerpt from a novel I'm working on, called Some Kind of Heaven. The story begins when Harper, a 37-year old journalist, vanishes. The only thing she leaves behind is her journal, which gives her husband Adam some hope to one day find her again.

The story highlights the challenges and the joys of being a woman in the XXI century.


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Julia

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njchambers85
njchambers85
Jul 16, 2021

Beautiful

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