My love for media is a rather ambivalent one.
Now I could argue that it is my primary form of communication with the world, with people, with places; and in today’s day and age… who doesn’t love their media?
It’s almost impossible not to feel your heart sink when you can’t feel your phone in the back pocket of your jeans. Or to get tremendously agitated at the news of Kanye still not releasing his album several weeks after his promised release date. Maybe even taking a seat on a long metro ride and realising you left your AirPods on your bed. Our lives revolve around this media era. Which for me, is a blessing and a curse.
Simply diluted to layman’s terms, sometimes, I hate how much I love my media.
Sitting at my desk, studying for an exam, yet yearning to pick up my phone (which was shoved under my pillow on silent to avoid distractions) and make sure I have no notifications or I haven’t missed out on any major events. It’s not just my recent memories that hold significance, I can think back to being a child, waking up from my nap and walking into my mum’s room, climbing under her duvet and watching Winnie the Pooh. A safe space.
Now, my love for my media is also demise.
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