Upon deleting Instagram

It’s sad that the notes from my trip to China—which could have been among the most interesting content published on this blog—remain little more than a sketch in my head, their outline as clear and perfect in my mind as they are vague and unfinished in practice. Writing is, truly, a challenge against oneself: it requires patience to find the right words to express one’s mental images and, above all, perseverance to battle the voices inside one’s head that whisper, “You won’t make it.”

Since last winter, I’ve made many attempts at writing, not one of which has come to fruition. What exactly makes it such an insurmountable task to write down one’s thoughts—be it a novel, a diary entry, or even a short story? I’ve begun to think that I’m simply not suited for it and that I should stop trying. Yet the idea of expressing the thoughts that occupy my mind is so compelling that it would be a shame—for me, at least—not to capture them on paper.

In an effort to attain the focus required for writing, I’ve finally deleted my social media account for good. Before, I had only deleted the app, but my scheming brain found a way to access its content anyway: I would browse the internet—Instagram was always on the “recently visited” page, just a tap away, ready to steal my attention. Navigating through the browser made scrolling through posts and reels so effortless that I eventually reinstalled the app. This time, I placed the icon in the last section of my phone’s screen, thinking it would be harder to reach. Joke’s on me—the first thing I did upon unlocking my phone was mindlessly swipe to that very section, and with one tap, I was back in.

But this time is different. This time, I deleted both of my profiles entirely to ensure there’s no going back. I could claim that, a week later, my life has changed—that my attention span has improved, and so on—but the truth is, not much is different. I haven’t suddenly become a genius just because I quit Instagram.

What has happened, though, is that I now read more—thanks in part to my dear job, which leaves me with very little to do day to day. And I’m beginning to suspect that the more one reads, the more futile any attempt at writing seems. Not only do we compare our writing to that of the authors we admire, but we also start to wonder whether our words are even needed at all. Perhaps this is why writing feels like a pursuit for the young: in some ways, it’s easier to be confident when you’re young, precisely because you’re unaware of so much.  

My job, as I mentioned, has given me ample time to read—and, in theory, to write. Maybe the global economy is grinding to a halt, or perhaps our company is just struggling, but over the past nine months, I’ve scarcely felt like I’ve been working at all. True, I’ve been assigned tasks—some even demanding enough to keep me working late into the night. But between those rare bursts of activity? Nothing. A barren desert. The profile pictures of my colleagues on Teams stare back at me from the screen, their smiles frozen as if under a spell, while the silence stretches on. No one reaches out to me, and, I must admit, I don’t reach out to them either.

And so I read—mindlessly, numbingly, over and over, sometimes simply because there’s nothing else to do. I read until I pause, set the book (or e-reader) down, and wonder: is this what my life has become? Reading for solace, pretending to work, occasionally working, taking holidays now and then—rinse and repeat. Has my life already crested its peak, and is this the first gentle slope of the descent?   When I voice these thoughts to Sandy, she scolds me, understandably so. If you’re so free, why don’t you look for something else—or at least your next job? She’s right, of course. Yet the idea refuses to take root in my mind. Could it be, as A. and I sometimes joke, our Mediterranean-ness —that cultural inertia that keeps us from voluntarily chasing hard work? That lets us lounge for hours, days, in glorious, unproductive stillness?

One good habit I picked up in March, which also stems from all the free time I have during my days, is walking. I realized I was living in an unfamiliar neighbourhood, that I didn’t know my surroundings at all. After nearly a year in Lewisham, I only knew the way to the train station, the supermarket, and the clinic. So in March, I started going on walks after clocking out, exploring somewhere new every day.   In the early days of the month, we had great weather—so sunny I didn’t even need to zip up my puffy jacket. I tried different routes around my house and soon confirmed that the ones through Blackheath and Greenwich Park are undoubtedly the most pleasant. There’s something about these British parks, which London’s suburbs are full of, something in the way they look in winter and early spring that gives them an aura of nostalgia. As you walk, vast stretches of green grass open up before you, reaching as far as the eye can see. Clusters of woods spring up in the distance. The sky is blue, clear, crisp, with soft velvet tones on the horizon. The distant hum of motorways is endless, yet it doesn’t disturb the peaceful island of a London park. And as you walk among the bare grasses and plants, stripped down by the harsh weather, magpies dart overhead to your right, while ducks waddle past to the left, calling out their silly cries. In this pit of filth and despair that is London, there’s so much life—so much stubborn, burning life!

On the way back home, the sky darkens, the wind grows colder and sharper against my cheeks. Lit by the occasional streetlamp or passing car, I meet the faces of fellow wandering humans. A lawyer and his hound have just finished their run and are headed home to Blackheath. They walk past me, their gaze concealing a certain snobbery: “Haven’t you got proper running shoes?” the owner seems to think. “Haven’t you got a dog with a coat this fine?” the puppy’s prance whispers. Just a few blocks later, a kid appears on the same road in the distance. He wears a black track suit, his headphones pressing into his hoodie. He stares straight ahead, walking fast—definitely Lewisham-bound. As I pass him, I feel his stare challenging me: “You think you’re tough? Seen these shoes, mate?” The school day is over. The work day is done. The sun has set, and night—night, the perennial state of this world—begins. Everyone’s at odds with their own mistakes, their own contradictions. And everyone moves on.