The screen in your hand is not a lantern—it’s a singularity. We mistake the glow for freedom, but freedom doesn’t pull you inward. It doesn’t shrink your world to thumb-width. This is the civilizational black hole: no screaming, no fire—just gradual, gentle swallowing. One scroll, one like, one night lost to the feed. We aren’t walking toward light. We’re being folded into darkness so quiet we call it progress. The real trap is that it feels like choice.
