I lie in bed some nights and the very last thing I do before I go to sleep feels wrong, wasteful and shameful.
I’m on Instagram or, more likely, Twitter, just catching up on the last word on the day, grabbing hold of one, two or twenty more opinions before I switch off and slide into the land of nod.
Why don’t I read the book that’s right there, beside me, waiting to be read? The book that’s been on my ‘to read’ list for months.
Fomo. Probably. A fear of missing out.
Eventually, I make Twitter disappear, hurriedly turn off wifi and switch on flight mode with a single tap while feeling grubby, knowing that I’ve just fed my mind some shit just when it’s got hours and hours to process it.
Why didn’t I feed it something useful to work with overnight?
Because social media is brilliantly effective, which is sometimes unfortunate.
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