Years ago, a university professor told me that Justin Bieber's Never Say Never movie was less impactful than the television I watched it on. I almost dropped out in protest.
OK fine, I'm butchering his actual (much smarter) argument, which was that the way we consume content says more about us than the content itself.
And he was right.
Let's use my TikTok account as an example. Sure, videos of tiny food being cooked in tiny kitchens bring me joy. But if you put me in front of an hour-long, unedited, video of a tiny kitchen, I wouldn't watch it.
Why? Because, thanks to TikTok, the way I digest content has been rewired.
Unlike my high-school days, where I would watch YouTube Vlogs back-to-back, I now favour short videos, infinite scrolling, and a double-speed option. In other words, my attention span is ruined and I crave immediate gratification.
It's the same with streaming sites. These days, it's rare that I have to wait a week for an episode of a show to drop; I can just binge the whole season in one go. Another example is food delivery services; I can get a takeaway without having to leave the comfort of my house.
Thanks to technology, everything is at my fingertips, and my life is defined by convenience: the convenience of speeding up videos; the convenience of on-demand shows: the convenience of food dropped to my door.
It's a privileged position to be in.
And it's one that leaves me with a worrying question … Is the convenience of technology making me lose my capacity for discomfort?






















