Go Touch Grass
There's something deeply wrong with the way we've learned to live, hunched over glowing rectangles, staring into our black mirrors, and mistaking reaction for reflection and stimulation for meaning. We scroll until our thoughts no longer feel like our own. We absorb outrage the way old wallpaper absorbs cigarette smoke. We begin the day with other people’s opinions already in our bloodstream, and then wonder why we feel so restless, so brittle, so strangely detached from ourselves.
Sometimes the cure isn't profound. Sometimes it's embarrassingly simple. Go outside. Stand in the yard, or on a sidewalk, or beside a tree in a parking lot if that is what is available to you. Feel the weather doing whatever the weather has decided to do. Let the sun hit your face without a pane of glass between you and it. Look at something that is alive and has no idea what discourse is. Touch grass, as the internet so mockingly puts it, and realize the internet accidentally stumbled into wisdom.