Reclaiming Attention: Going Against the Grain of Binge Culture
- Bair Klos
- Sep 3
- 22 min read
Greetings world~
Been a minute since I wrote a blog, but I'm glad that as I exist in this weird liminal space between the end of my summer classes and the beginning of my fall semester, I finally got some inspo to get the ball rolling again. Lately, I've been particularly inspired by a mix of things: The Artist's Way, the movie Deepwater Horizon, and my own effort to reclaim my attention span from the death grip of social media algorithms.
Just like how we shouldn't binge eat, I don’t think it’s wise to binge consume media. And yet, that’s the norm. Pick your poison: Netflix, Hulu, Disney+, HBO, TikTok, YouTube, video games, Twitter (I will never call it X), Reddit, Instagram Reels, etcetera etcetera, the list goes on. The stream never ends. And neither does the expectation to keep swimming in it.
Admittedly, I've always enjoyed being contrarian. I've always been drawn to trodding the path less taken. Although, some of this started back when I was a tween and very much in my “pick-me” era—the kind of mindset that whispered, “I’m not like other people… I’m an intellectual.” But over time, that need to be seen as different and distinctive has matured into something far more grounded—it's no longer about being clever, but more about living aligned. Less about being perceived a certain way or being "better", but being more me. And to no longer feel the need to prove myself and more about living genuinely and authentically with intention as someone who values depth and autonomy in a world that often rewards the opposite.
Though this tendency to resist the pull of the majority isn’t random. While it is part instinct, it's also part upbringing. Both of my parents are extraordinary people. People who truly stand out from the crowd. With my mom being an incredibly intelligent, emotionally smart, woman in a position of leadership for all her adult life (and long before I was ever born), my dad has also been someone with extraordinary talents and ways of thinking. Their combination and rather unusual dynamic—my mom the "bread winner" and my dad the stay-at-home parent, something that still isn't widely accepted even in the year 2025—they not only fostered, but instilled the innate desire in me to take the road less travelled. Whether it was politics, pop culture, music, or just how we spent our weekends, they taught me to question what everyone else seemed so quick to accept.
Not just for rebellion's sake, but because they wanted to raise their child to be able to think critically, and to therefore think for themselves—to have the courage to stand by my own choices and convictions. In the past, I've even prided myself for not having watched a ton of current TV shows or movies. Not because I think I’m better than anyone, but because most of the time? I'm just not interested. It's rare for something mainstream to catch my interest enough for me to even go looking for it. I tend to enjoy niche topics, so most hyped shows don't intrigue me.
That said, I’m not immune to falling down YouTube rabbit holes. I’ve sunk countless hours into video essays and educational content (and a whole bunch of other unnecessary garbage), convincing myself it was “productive” because, hey, I was learning about dinosaurs or human evolution from Hank Green. But I won't pretend I’m above the dopamine slot machine, because my latest dopamine addiction has been Trixie and Katya. Because being smart and stupid is my Roman empire, and sometimes you need to balance evolution theory with drag queen chaos. And because, well… They're iconic and funny as hell.
But the truth is, even that can become a smokescreen—a way to justify avoiding the things I actually care about.
Lately, I’ve been working on reclaiming my attention. Especially as someone who is neurodivergent, I know how precious focus is. I don’t want my brain to atrophy like a muscle I never use. So I evaluated my habits and started putting hard stops on my YouTube consumption, and the difference has been palpable. Less screen time = more energy. More time to create, to move, and just be.
But this isn’t about demonizing media altogether. In fact, that’s the other side of the coin I want to talk about.
Let's get into it.
Reclaiming One's Attention
Like an on-again-off-again situationship, reclaiming my attention has been an on-going, several year endeavor. The kind where, just when I think I’ve broken things off for good, I find myself back in old patterns I thought I had risen above.
There have come points in time since 2020 where I've deleted all my social media apps, determined to not get sucked into the algorithm because it was eating so much of my time… only to redownload them thinking I could resist their seductive sirens call. And for a while, I can. But the doomscrolling always finds a way to sneak back in. Especially when I’m tired, overstimulated, or avoiding something deeper. I know I'm not the only person who has done this. I've heard time and time again from my friends lamenting about the same behavior. We all think we're Tom Bombadil, when in reality we're actually Boromir. The Ring will always win, unless you throw it in the fire (delete the apps).
The algorithms are made to be predatory, they're meant to keep you on the app and endlessly doomscrolling. But the best way to reclaim your attention and not getting tempted back onto social media is to not redownload the apps. I know, how obvious. So when the siren song snags through my subconscious or conscious mind to seek out a dopamine hit, I have to ask myself: How much of my craving for dopamine is because I’ve cut down on social media, and how much of it is just my ADHD brain, doing what it does best?
Either way, the urge is there. And rather than pretending I’m above it—like Boromir with the One Ring, thinking I can handle its pull—I’ve had to admit that I can’t always trust myself with unstructured access to the algorithm. So I’ve started approaching it differently.
My solution? To stop fighting the craving with shame, and instead replacing old habits with better ones. To build structures that protect my energy. And to do something kind of radical in this hyper-connected digital age: Go silent.
Prioritize silence. Leave my phone behind when I go for a walk. Pause before reflexively opening an app. Ask myself what I actually need—stimulation or stillness? Distraction or restoration?
I started asking these questions after noticing that I was stuck in a loop—doing the same things over and over again, expecting a different outcome (which, as they say, is the definition of insanity). So instead of doomscrolling, I reach for a book, or go for a talk, or text a friend. Instead of typing “YouTube” out of muscle memory, I open Substack, or Letterboxd, or a podcast I’ve been saving.
And to help me out, I didn’t rely on willpower alone. I installed two browser extensions on my computer and one on my phone that block me from accessing certain sites after a set time limit. If I want to bypass it, I have to jump through enough hoops and confirmation boxes that I usually stop mid-click—humorously shamed into turning back. And on my phone, if I need to open something, like respond to a friend whose contact I only have on Instagram, it makes me wait 30 seconds before opening, and before it opens, the screen reads in big bold, italicized, capital letters: YOU HAVE DREAMS AND AMBITIONS. DON’T LOSE SIGHT OF YOUR WHY.
Not to shame myself, but to anchor myself. To not let myself fall unawarely into passivity, and become a side character in my own life. Because it is better to build toward better, sustainable, and fulfilling habits, than escaping into a nonconstructive non-reality that steals my attention for hours.
And surprisingly…? It’s working.
That’s what has made me reconsider how I watch shows and movies. I have no problem sitting down in a theater and being immersed—that feels intentional. Sacred, even. But binge-watching a TV at home just to fill space? I don’t love that. I shamed myself out of that long ago. So unless I’m watching with other people, I find it off-putting. Even the few shows I do enjoy, sometimes it takes me months to finish. Even if there are six episodes and the episodes are only 20min long. Too much of a good thing is still too much.
And that brings me to the real heart of this post. Not about demonizing media, or replacing one addiction with another, but about remaining present. To undo the shame I had instilled within myself over binge watching content that I knew was a waste of time. Remembering that some shows and films aren’t just content—they can be capital-A Art. That escapism, when chosen mindfully, can be deeply healing. That getting lost in a movie, feeling your spirit shift and stir, is not a waste of time—it’s the point.
So instead of consuming media as background noise or emotional filler, I’ve started carving out time for it. Purposefully. Whether it’s to be moved, inspired, or simply entertained. Sometimes, it’s research. Sometimes, it’s rest. Sometimes, it’s reverence.
All Work, No Play (The Other Extreme)
In my effort to reclaim my attention and protect my energy from the algorithm, I’ve noticed another trap—one that’s just as sneaky, just as seductive, and arguably just as damaging: the belief that consuming any media is a waste of time. I've especially seen this with some of my friends. I've certainly been guilty of believing that rest must be earned. That inspiration must be scheduled. That in order to be successful, or self-aware, or evolved, you have to always be on and productive. I’ve written about this before—especially in my post on How To See The World Like An Artist—and I’m still learning how deep this mindset runs. But let’s be clear: that’s just another kind of poison.
Some people live for years—even decades—caught in a fog of passivity. Days bleed into weeks, weeks into years, glued to their screens, numbing out, convincing themselves they’ll get around to their dreams “eventually.” Then something shakes them. A moment of clarity. A health scare. A breakup. A lost opportunity. A creative drought. And suddenly, the haze clears. They see how much time has slipped by, and they panic. So they swing hard in the other direction. Hustle. Structure. No time wasted. They cram productivity into every minute like they’re trying to make up for lost time. But now they’re on the other extreme. Rest becomes guilt, leisure becomes laziness, and any form of stillness feels dangerous. They’re no longer wasting their lives, but they’re no longer living them either. Just sprinting through a to-do list, afraid of ever slowing down.
We think we’re fixing the problem by going from one end of the spectrum to the other. But both are unsustainable. Both are exhausting. And both rob us of the quiet middle ground where true creativity, connection, and life actually happen.
We must find that middle ground. Let's be clear too, not everyone's middle ground will look the same. But in being mindful and existing in that balance, I must call out the massive differences between mindless consumption and soulful replenishment. One leaves you feeling empty; the other fills you up from somewhere soft and sacred. We are not machines. We are not here to optimize every hour of our lives like calendar blocks in Google. There is something profoundly healing, even necessary, about letting yourself sit with a story. To get swept up in something beautiful, human, and messy. To really let yourself feel something.
Sometimes, letting yourself watch a movie—not to analyze it, not to dissect the cinematography, not to “earn it” by folding laundry or answering emails while it plays, but simply to enjoy it, that is what your creative self needs. Because as much as I resist binge-watching, I also resist grind-watching—that reflex to turn even leisure into a task. To turn art into utility. To turn rest into performance.
Let yourself romanticize your life. Let yourself get bored. Let yourself feel awe again. Let yourself play.
That’s part of real rebellion of going against the capitalist agenda.
The Benefits Of Boredom
There’s a kind of quiet magic that only reveals itself when everything else stops. When the tabs are closed, the notifications silenced, the screen turned black—and it’s just you, breathing, listening, being. In a world that demands constant motion, stillness feels alien. Boredom, even more so. But it’s in that intentional pause that enchantment begins to stir.
Without something constantly filling the space, your thoughts stretch, your senses reawaken, and your inner world starts speaking again: You realize the wind is hushing against your window, stirring the branches of a tree outside. You realize how good it feels to sip something warm without distraction. You notice how delicious the food your eating is, despite it being takeout. You realize how your own imagination flickers to life when it’s no longer smothered by the technologies noise.
In a Harvard Business Review article by Arthur C. Brooks, researchers found that boredom opens the door to asking big questions—the kind that invite wonder, clarity, and originality. But when we never let ourselves be bored—when we scroll, scroll, scroll to fill the silence—we start to feel hollow. Stretched thin. Like we’re chasing stimulation instead of living.
So here’s a gentle rebellion to try:
No devices after 8 or 9 PM
No phones during meals, even solo ones
Do a regular digital “fast” (one day, one weekend, or one hour at a time)
Don’t sleep with your phone by your bed
Give yourself 15+ minutes of intentional boredom every day
Stillness invites wonder. It invites presence. It lets the soul exhale. You may just start digging into the biggest questions in your life: purpose, meaning, significance.
You don’t have to meditate on a mountaintop or delete all your apps—but try letting yourself be still for just fifteen minutes a day. No input. No performance. No scrolling. Just stillness. Observe what blooms in the absence of stimulation. And who knows? You may just find yourself returning to yourself.
So when the world feels like too much, you don’t always need something to escape into or a productivity hack. You might just need to be bored. Yes, bored. On purpose. How terrifying.
Reviewing Your Relationship With Art
Back in early February, I made friends with a film student—someone who has since become a very dear friend of mine. One of my best friends, honestly. The kind of person you meet and instantly recognize as a kindred spirit. The day we met, she introduced me to The Artist’s Way, and together we started a little book club: one chapter a week, followed by deep discussions over what we've read, how it resonated with us, what it stirred up, and what we’re still trying to untangle.
That book, and the conversations it’s sparked, have led me to review, in-depth, my relationship with art. Not just writing, but music. Film. Drawing. Painting. Creating anything. And not just the making of it, but the receiving of it. The way art holds space for me, reflects me, shifts me. And the way I’ve sometimes distanced myself from it, out of fear or distraction or not feeling “not good enough” to create anything at all.
So I wanted to share the abbreviated versions of the first three chapters:
Chapter One: Safety is about acknowledging the wounds we carry around our creativity—the teachers who dismissed us, the family who didn’t take it seriously, the inner monologue who tells us we have more urgent things to do, the inner voice that says “you’re not good enough.” This chapter is aimed to help readers name where we've internalized shame around making things—and even consuming art with full presence and without apology.
Chapter Two: Identity is where things got personal. It asks you to pay attention to jealousy and envy, not as something to avoid, but as a compass. It asks: "What are you drawn to? What lights you up with admiration or bitterness?" That might be your creative soul pointing toward what it actually wants. This chapter helped me realize that my hesitations around consuming certain types of art weren’t just taste—they were avoidance. Because sometimes when we envy people who make things we love, it's because deep down, we want to make things like that too.
Chapter Three: Power reminds you that you are allowed to make things. That perfectionism is a mask for fear. That there’s strength in starting—even if it’s messy, inconsistent, or private. That creativity isn’t a gift granted to a lucky few—it’s a birthright, something every person carries.
So I encourage you to read The Artists Way too. To read and re-read, listen or re-listen to music that once meant something. Watch a film that made you cry in high school, let yourself sketch in the margins of your journal without judgment—these small acts help to rebuild trust between you and your creative self. Not to produce, not to publish, not to prove anything, just to feel connected again.
Expressing ourselves is innately human and cathartic, we should never snuff it. Because art, when approached with openness and honesty, doesn’t demand anything from us. It invites us back into ourselves.
Analyzing Art
After years of doomscrolling, dopamine-chasing, and passive consumption, our brains have gotten used to being spoon-fed content instead of being invited to wrestle with it. But good, intentional art (if you don't have your brain off, that is) asks something of you. And lately, I’ve been relearning how to meet it halfway.
But this means stretching my thinking muscles. God knows that a majority of us haven’t been using them…After years of social media rot and dopamine-chasing, it genuinely feels like our brains have gone soft. Like soup. We’re so used to being fed content in neatly packaged, algorithm-approved morsels that we’ve forgotten how to think for ourselves; to wrestle with complexity, to sit with ambiguity, to ask: Why did the artist choose that? What is this scene trying to say? What’s the subtext here? Or even: What’s missing? What feels off?
And honestly? I think doomscrolling is one of the main reasons people have become so… dumb lately. I don’t mean that cruelly. I mean it like a bone-deep sigh. Because it’s not our fault. None of us were taught to think in school—not really. Critical thinking wasn’t part of the curriculum; obedience was. Thanks American education system… So now we’re here, trying to unstick our brains from years of passive consumption, wondering why everything feels a little hollow.
But the good news? Thinking is a muscle and muscles can be built and rebuilt.
So here’s where I've been starting: Watching something because I want to feel something, because I want to be inspired. To see the world through new eyes. To let my empathy be stretched, or my imagination lit up, to have my soul stirred in some meaningful way. Or hell, even to get mad at a character. To let them tap-dance on my last nerve and force me to wrestle with the choices they’re making before I inevitably turn off the show or movie and chuck the remote across the room in frustration. That too, is an emotional release. And it’s worth something.
Because humans are artful creatures. We tell stories to survive. To connect. To reflect. To understand ourselves and each other. To shun art—or worse, to treat it as a frivolous afterthought—is to do a disservice to the work itself, to the creators who poured themselves into it, and to the parts of you that are waiting to be moved.
Hollywood and the industry at large for cranking out soulless, lowest-common-denominator, algorithm-baiting content. Not everything has to be high art, but can't someone care about what they're saying??… More to be said on this in the next section.
So the next time you watch something, anything, try sitting back and asking:
What is this trying to say?
Who is this made for?
Why this setting, this costume, this color, this line?
What feels intentional? What feels lazy?
What does this make me feel, and why?
And maybe even: what would I do differently?
That’s how we start reclaiming our critical thinking. Not through judgment. But through curiosity.
Further Reading & Writing Resources
Want to dive deeper? These resources blog posts expand on some of the ideas shared in this blog:
You Are the Story You Tell Yourself | An Existential Take on Why Humans Crave Stories – Explore how the narratives we craft—both on the page and in our own minds—shape our identity, purpose, and perception of the world. This post dives into the existential power of storytelling and how understanding it can make you not only a better writer, but a more self-aware human.
How Writing Has Made Me a Better Person (& How It Can Do the Same for You) – Learn how the act of writing can transform your inner world, deepen your self-awareness, and foster personal growth. This post explores the emotional, mental, and even spiritual benefits of writing—whether you’re journaling, drafting a novel, or just trying to make sense of your life.
Now, I want to give some credit where credit is due. The same film friend I do book club with is also the one who reinvigorated my interest in watching movies and shows. When I have sat down to enjoy a movie in the evening by myself, I find myself being a bit more present.
I not only enjoy the movie for its aesthetic and beautiful costume design, but for the cinematography, lighting, costuming, color palettes, set design. All the big and small, deliberate and subtle ways filmmakers tell stories within stories. She’s helped me remember how layered and amazing visual storytelling can be, and how much power can exist in a single, well-composed frame. Take this screen shot from season one, episode two, of The Last Of Us on HBO. (Spoiler Alert: I will be sharing some minor details from season one.)
When I first watched this episode, some part of my storytelling brain surfaced and was awed due to the show's visual storytelling. In this one beautifully haunting scene, Ellie sits alone in a dilapidated room, overtaken by moss and plant life, with warm sunlight cascading down upon her, illuminating her and her surroundings. Meanwhile, Joel and Tess sit apart from her in the shadows—physically present, but emotionally and symbolically distanced. Joel, however, is caught in the soft edges of that golden light as he looks at Ellie. Tess remains in the dark. It's a scene that happens so quickly, with so many jumps and cuts in-between that its almost a "blink-and-you-miss-it" scenario.
The set up of the shot is no accident. The light and greenery are all intentional, it’s all deliberate cinematography doing narrative work. Ellie is the light. She’s the key to hope, to rebirth, to something green growing again in a dead world. Joel and Tess, cloaked in darkness, still exist in the old world, the broken one.
But notice Joel in the screen shot. Joel, still hardened and traumatized, is tentatively turning toward Ellie, toward hope. He's more illuminated in this shot than Tess. Tess, whose fate has already been sealed by infection, remains cloaked in shadow, her story already ending. But Ellie? She represents what comes next. Growth. Healing. Life. And the scene shows us that not through dialogue, but through light and silence and visual contrast.
That’s the kind of analysis we miss when we consume art passively. But when you slow down, pause, look, you start to see it: the story beneath the story. When you slow down, when you let yourself look, media becomes something so much more than content. It becomes layered, emotional, intimate. You’re no longer a passive viewer, but an active participant in the conversation the creator started. Lighting becomes a language. Composition becomes prophecy. And suddenly, you’re not just watching something—you’re feeling it in your bones. It's like lifting a veil from your eyes and being let in on a delicious secret.
FML & My High Standards
Now, with all that said about analyzing art… FML and my high standards.
Because here’s the downside of developing a discerning eye: once you start holding yourself to a higher standard—artistically, creatively, emotionally—you can’t help but start holding everything else to that standard too. And when I’ve spent so much time, energy, money, and soul honing my own craft, pouring devotion into details, it’s genuinely disheartening to engage with art that feels… lazy. Rushed. Or gutted by corporate greed.
I’ve been abstaining from watching things that feel mediocre or poorly written for years, and as a result? I’ve become a serial DNF-er. I’ll start a show or movie, get excited about the premise, and then promptly abandon it when the execution lets me down. Not because I’m pretentious, but because I want to love it. I want to be swept away. But when the writing is hollow, the pacing limp, or the production feels like a soulless cash grab—I feel it viscerally. And I mourn what could’ve been. (Que me furiously writing fanfiction to makeup for soulless writing…)
Case in point: I’m a massive Addams Family fan. And as a Tim Burton enthusiast, I was cautiously excited for Netflix’s Wednesday. I really wanted to love it. I tried to love it. But I could barely get through the first episode. Something about the tone, the dialogue, the choices, the cringe characters and acting—it just didn’t click. It felt like the aesthetic was there, but the spirit wasn’t.
Not to mention, as a die-hard lover of The Addams Family, especially the original black-and-white TV show, the feud between Wednesday and Morticia felt completely unaligned with the canon family dynamic. I’m all for creative liberties—in fact, I welcome them when executed well and done with purpose—but the original premise of the Addamses was a deliberate satire of the “typical” American household: a family that looked macabre on the outside but was, in fact, deeply loving, supportive, and functional in a way that most TV families of the time weren’t. Husbands and wives were adored. Children were encouraged. Neighbors, even though the Addamses didn't understand their normal ways of behaving, were invited in and treated graciously and like royalty.
Morticia would die for her children and support them even if she didn’t always understand them. Morticia would never be threatened by her daughter’s darkness, she’d champion it! (Addams Family Values literally hinges on Morticia and Gomez trusting the babysitter’s claim that their kids want to go to summer camp. They don’t second-guess their kids’ desires, they honor them without hesitation.)
So to pit Morticia and Wednesday against each other in a cold, antagonistic way felt not just off, it felt disingenuous. It felt deeply out-of-character. Like someone tried to modernize the characters without understanding what made them timeless. These weren’t character evolutions—they were rewrites that stripped away the emotional truth of who these people were. The Addamses have always been weird, but they were also warm, fiercely loyal, and full of unexpected tenderness. What I saw instead were aesthetic replicas: flattened, sanitized versions of the originals, tailor-made for a streaming audience but detached from their original purpose. Characters that were basically hollowed-out versions wearing Addams drag. The emotional beats didn’t land because the characters were out-of-character and no long attached to their core truths.
It all just left me feeling like the writer didn’t just take creative liberties… They took shortcuts as well as not doing their homework. The result? Characters that were technically familiar, but emotionally unrecognizable.
(And really? Pilgrims as the villain? Groundbreaking…)
And that speaks to a broader frustration I’ve been feeling: the not-so-slow decay of storytelling in mainstream media. Fewer writers in the room. More executives in charge. Shrinking budgets. Over-reliance on IP, AI, and CGI. Art shaped by algorithms instead of actual artists. It feels like wonder is being edited out in favor of “content.”
But here’s the thing: not everything has to be a masterpiece. And not everything will resonate with everyone. I’m learning (however reluctantly) that it’s okay to let things miss sometimes. That it’s okay for something to not be “for me.” That doesn’t mean I have to lower my standards. Just that I can make peace with what’s out of my control…
There’s still beauty in trying. There’s still value in the attempt. And maybe the real act of creative integrity isn’t just about having high standards—it’s about creating space for wonder, even when it falls short.
Let Me Enjoy My Trash in Peace
After all that talk of high standards, it’s only fair to say this: I also love trash. And I say that with my whole chest. Not everything I consume needs to be a cinematic masterpiece or a literary triumph. Sometimes, I want something ridiculous. Something predictable. Something deeply unserious. A silly little show with bad wigs and worse dialogue. A fanfic with more tropes than plot. Or a horrifically done movie about a priest who goes to China after losing his parents and inherits a mysterious power that allows him to turn into a "velociraptor." (Velocipastor is such a god-awful and stupid movie, it's so campy BUT IT'S SO GOOD. It's so bad it's good! (in reality it is just trash but I will die on this hill, I think it's hilarious.) You should totally watch it just to hate on it.)
And you know what? That’s valid. That’s necessary. Because while I have a deep love for art that challenges and stretches me, I also need space for stories and media that just let me breathe. Not everything needs to be profound to be pleasurable. Not everything needs to be revolutionary to be fun. Sometimes the joy is in the cringe, in the mess, in the chaos, and good ol' fashion comedy. And I’m learning to stop justifying that joy to anyone—even myself. So if any of my friends are reading this, don't judge me for my choice of media poison. Let me enjoy my trash in peace. 🫶🗑️✨
Privilege & Boredom Acknowledgment
→ Side Note: I want to pause and say this clearly: I recognize the privilege in being able to contemplate boredom, rest, or even media consumption as a choice. Not everyone has the luxury to opt out of hustle culture. For many, rest isn’t radical, it’s simply unavailable. Bills need paying. Kids need feeding. Life demands attention, often at the cost of our own well-being. I’m incredibly fortunate to be in a position where I can even talk about reclaiming my attention, turning off notifications, or giving myself “fifteen minutes of intentional boredom.” That’s a kind of freedom not everyone has and I never want to pretend otherwise.
So this reflection isn’t meant as a one-size-fits-all prescription. It’s simply an offering. A meditation. A gentle call back to those of us who do have a bit of space, but have forgotten how to use it. Who’ve mistaken rest for weakness. Who’ve been given freedom, but filled it with noise.
Concluding Thoughts
God, this post really made me put my attention to the test, hahaha. Which honestly feels a the perfect full-circle moment. Because this whole post wasn't about rejecting media, but to be more present and mindful. To choose intentional consumption as a form of rebellion and self-care. It’s about remembering that art doesn’t have to be a productivity hack, a background noise, or something you “earn” by finishing your to-do list. Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is sit down, watch a film, read a book, listen to an album and simply enjoy it.
Let us feel and be provoked, let us provoke and offer new ways of seeing the world. Be brave to make something that might make someone cry—even if that someone is yourself! Enjoy art and reclaim not just your attention, but your sovereignty.
So my two questions to you are: When was the last time you watched a movie or show for the appreciation and enjoyment of art, not just because you were looking to distract yourself? And what are you watching, or start watching, that actually feeds your soul, not just your algorithm?
Let's discuss, I'd love to know your thoughts in the comments below :)
“We do not escape into art; we escape into the truth.” — Anaïs Nin.
Be intentional, live wisely, love abundantly, and above all, get to art-making!
—Bair✍︎
Where epic fantasy meets philosophical ponderings of the self.
P.S.
If you've gotten this far, I think you would enjoy reading these blog posts:
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