AXE Ceremonia
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When I was a kid, my parents were supposed to be the gatekeepers of my fragile, pre-Internet brain. Spoiler: they absolutely flunked the assignment. It was their job to stand between me and the World Wide Web—but the only thing my mom really cared about was whether I put my actual government name on Myspace. As if some lurking serial killer was going to search ‘xXxViolaValentineXx,’ scroll past my glittery GIFs and lunch quizzes, then track me down while I walked to the bus, blasting My Chemical Romance on a battered Discman. Please. In hindsight, the real threat wasn’t a man in a windowless van; it was the slow, insidious rot of spending twelve hours a day online, quietly losing my mind.
Back then, they couldn’t have guessed the internet would run a full-blown, decades-long scam on my sense of self. My parents were essentially sleepwalking as the digital tidal wave rolled in, blissfully unaware that their daughter would soon become addicted to refreshing pages and scrolling herself into an existential coma. And let me tell ya: the receipts are infinite: endless selfies from tragic angles, bad boyfriends paraded like trophies, messy rants, drunken stories that got deleted at 3 a.m. The archive is a landfill with my face everywhere in it.
Fast-forward: here we are, collectively losing our grip, roiling in the pits of hell, trying to manage the addiction we all have, wondering why we feel like shit. We pop-psych, we podcast, we doomscroll, we binge-watch TED Talks about how to get our lives back. And yet, we keep making ourselves hyper-visible, then clutch our pearls about privacy. It’s all one massive experiment to see how much dignity we’ll surrender in exchange for virtual applause. I mean, I’m right there with you—don’t think I’m judging from the high horse. I’ve got hoofprints on my own back.
These past few years, I’ve started to curb my insatiable need to over-share. It’s almost alarming how many hours there actually are in a day when you’re not gnawing your fingertips off over Instagram likes or hate-watching celebrity TikToks. Turns out, life is weirdly… enjoyable when you’re present for it. Who knew? I spent so long escaping my own reality that now I flinch at pleasure itself. Joy? For me? Unthinkable.
If you don’t live intentionally—like, with even a smidge of purpose—you start to atrophy in places you didn’t know existed. Spiritually, emotionally, probably in your glutes. I mean it literally when I say every sunset triggers a tiny existential mourning. I’ll watch the sky go up in flames, gorgeous waves of orange and magenta, and think, “If this is my last day, is this what I wanted? Did I go somewhere that I didn’t feel the need to compulsively document? Did I laugh my ass off with friends, or at least get a solid stretch in?” Sometimes I just scroll myself into a hole, checking the Kardashians’ latest drama, relaying updates to my poor husband as if I’m their press secretary. Other days I’m tearing myself apart over a “bad” selfie, or hate-stalking a high school nemesis and her suspiciously photogenic fiancé, or falling into a YouTube gossip spiral until my brain is liquified. A full day in the life.
My generation spends so much time in front of screens that we could probably power the grid with sheer eye strain. No wonder we’re exhausted, hollowed out, and absolutely petrified of mortality—we’re not living, we’re just… buffering. Our souls know it. Every “Where did the year go?” is your subconscious waving a red flag: you’re not maxing out your experience points, my dude.
But taking responsibility? Oh, that’s humanity’s least favorite activity. We love the fantasy of being powerless—it means we don’t have to admit we’re the reason we’re miserable. With social media, we hand over our most precious stuff: attention, time, identity—then act like something faceless mugged us while we weren’t looking. Oh no! Mark Zuckerberg with a fake mustache! No, babe, the power is literally in your hands. But it’s excruciating to admit that you have been the architect of your own digital prison. There’s so much shame in coming to terms with that. The answers are right there (log off, touch grass), but who wants to do the heavy lifting? Much easier to eat the cake and whine about the frosting.
Case in point: I was doomscrolling (duh) and stumbled on a clip of Ethel Cain performing in Mexico City at the annual festival AXE Ceremonia. This willowy, ethereal creature (who looks like Duck Dynasty started an indie pop-rock band) was just floating through the crowd, singing her heart out. The sky behind her was unreal; you could see the pink-gray twilight sinking between buildings, as a gentle breeze went through her hair like it was choreographed. And what was the audience doing? Soaking in the moment? Enjoying the music? Nope. They’re trampling each other to record blurry TikToks. One video was so close you could count her pores, but the person filming was glued to their phone, missing the actual experience happening inches away. I wanted to scream. And the payoff? A viral clip, a handful of “OMG” comments, then nothing. The memory: gone. They robbed themselves of such a beautiful moment. Who cares if you were there if you didn’t actually live it?
Zoom out. Multiply that by every “event” since 2010, every brunch, concert, awkward date, sunset, every single moment we’ve chosen to archive instead of inhabit. It starts to feel a little… apocalyptic.
I hiked the other weekend—it was unusually hot. The sky was bleeding that aggressive June blue and cicadas were screaming like they’d just discovered they can. I remember thinking, “Holy shit, these are just apps. When I put the phone down, I’m just… here.” Trees shifting in the warm breeze, sun on my face, the silence pressed against my ears. Privacy. Actual, unfiltered peace. And it finally hit me: I can have this. All of it. I don’t need permission. These moments are mine, whenever I want them. I just have to choose them.
— M