It's an exhausting paradox of modern, capitalist society: the never-ending pressures of the outside world blow up our entire internal system, leaving a profound internal fragmentation, while the digital sphere forces us into simultaneous awareness and unavoidable detachment from the real world. We keep doomscrolling, afraid of stillness, afraid of being out of control. Our thoughts get instantly broken into tiny little pieces: caption-length, tweet-sized, fleeting impressions that vanish before they can even settle; ideas that are too fragile to be written down; and love that starts fading away even before gaining all its colours. Even in the places that are supposed to be our safe havens and bring us closer to peace, our minds retain an unknown anxiousness — a constant pressure to respond correctly, to justify our presence, to appear perfect.

The instant we start romanticising a beautiful scenario or get into a real moment of joy, we feel at peace; then that ping, that notification, that viral headline lights up the screen and dims our light within, right away. We drift away, leaving behind our unfiltered laughter and honest conversations; our "supposed-to-be sweet memories" are instantly silenced by the overwhelming noise. We see the world's worst humanitarian crises, genocides, and war crimes live, and this constant overload forces us into a collective coping mechanism: desensitisation through double taps (we consume tragedy), sharing (we perform our empathy), and swiping through (we instantly dismiss it).

This feeling of being bound by helplessness amidst this constant speed creates a state of immobilised anxiety — a deep, unwanted, shared exhaustion across the public — which holds us back from "not pretending," "not covering our sad faces," "not showing our unbearable insecurities," "not getting tired," and "not being humane."

This obnoxious pattern can be seen embedded deeply in our disorganised and chaotic social structures as well. In classrooms or office spaces, our depth often gets overshadowed by speed; we are pressured to act immediately, to present efficiently, to answer quickly, to summarise, to prove, "We are focused, we're paying attention, we're learning, we're giving it our all," and rarely allowed to breathe through. Yet the whirlwind of incomplete thoughts, inclination to act, fleeting ideas, and, not to forget, this profound desire to stop — to pause — are left stranded.

This points to the grave tragedy of the contemporary world: our genuine reflection is not an action but a gradual and uneven process, one that requires a period of uninterrupted presence to fully work into our consciousness. Only then can it nurture our understanding, imagination, and empathy. But in our culture of anarchy and chaos, that slow soaking is nowadays a "luxury" few can afford. This feeling of being bound by helplessness amidst this constant speed creates a state of immobilised anxiety — a deep, unwanted, shared exhaustion across the public — which holds us back from "not pretending," "not covering our sad faces," "not showing our unbearable insecurities," "not getting tired," and "not being humane."

With a cultural mandate that constantly ensures our reflections are replaced by instant reactions and in-depth thoughts by immediacy, what price are you willing to pay to protect yourself from a pace that demands this irrational rat race — this exhausting performance that ultimately leads you nowhere? To reclaim the non-negotiable territory of your own still mind? Are you even willing to? Or are you literally unaware of this illusion consistently holding you captive?

Fatiha Mohsin Tusi is a student at Independent University, Bangladesh.

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