I Burned My Tongue and Blamed It on the Algorithm | Pixtox | Deepsikha Roy

 

At 7:00 AM yesterday, I adjusted my room temperature to a perfect 26 degrees and told myself it'd be a good day.
At 8:00 AM, I burned my tongue on my espresso while scrolling past a post on protesting farmers. I quickly shared the post in my story and moved on to pick the newspaper that highlighted the world hunger index. As I sympathized with it briefly, I quickly grabbed by double egg toast and started my day.

I called my friend on my way to work, and ranted about how the social media is filled with negativity and not worth the toll it takes on mental well-being. While I complained I couldn't ignore that I was complaining from a car seat, not a protest site.

While at work, fetching a client even after following up for the fifth time seemed hopeless, my manager relieved me by giving examples of harder things people do around the world. With silent guilt, I hit the send on a mail that ended with: "Hope this doesn't get lost. looking forward to hearing from you soon."

After work, I went to the nearest club with my closed circle and while I grabbed the second glass of wine, I calmly listened to their spouting on why the current government should be thrown away. I tried to give my input in the conversation, but someone said,  "you won't understand anything being inside the air conditioned walls of your pink room".
I gulped down my last glass and left.

Reaching home, as I took a hot shower with the comforting scent of my new vanilla body wash, I wondered about the possibilities of subjects that one has to know to understand the deep nature of everything that is happening today. To make sense of why a chief minister might quote a poem instead of policy, I have to understand history, sociology and the entire human evolution. This is difficult. The world would be the same even if I don't put my mind on these things.

As I lighted the perfumed candle and scanned page number 222 of kite runner, every page reminded me of my indifference to the million struggles.

As I closed the book, my mind opened. A dilemma played on the loop:
what should I care about?  While I have a choice to unplug everything and detach, won't my silence make me a part of the problem?
As the night deepened, an unknown guilt muddled my mind of the comfort I can choose by heeding from everything that is uncomfortable.
I darkened the room to alleviate my mind, but my mind kept whispering questions: How much should I care?
Does it make any difference if I voice out, but does that mean my stillness helps?

At 8:00 AM today, just as I burned my tongue on the espresso, I stopped myself from ranting - what if someone replied with homes burnt to ashes that my pink air conditioned walls will not let me see?