The Pope died this morning, which feels like it should feel like something, but doesn’t. I guess he was kind of a good guy by Pope standards. He championed same-sex union blessings and did… something… to address the sexual abuse perpetrated by priests within the church, but he wasn’t interested in ordaining women and thought abortion was murder, so, again, only “good” by Pope standards.

I saw the news first on Facebook, which I have taken to scrolling through each morning, a complete and utter waste of my time that always leaves me in a worse mood than when I opened the app. But, by design, I am addicted to it and therefore continue to open it and scroll 10 times a day.

I would estimate that 40% of all people I see sitting at cafes here in Rome are looking down at their phones, which is embarrassing for them. I view my addiction to social media as shameful and therefore, should be exercised in private. However, most seem at complete ease to be witnessed slouched over and slack-jawed, an Aperitivo sweating on their table while they stare, emersed in the endless scroll.

I see mid-twenties women slowly walking down alleys, pretending to be lost in the majesty as their friends walk behind them snapping photos or shooting video then, after they think they have enough footage to choose from, I watch them scurry back to the person holding their phone, now truly enraptured by themselves playing back on the screen. I know they will post their whimsically trite, staged experience online and then constantly check their phones for equally trite feedback in the form of posted hearts and fire emojis.

This is where I have to aknowledge that not only am I a judgemental bitch but I am exactly like them, save for my shame. I also want the dopamine drip of Facebook and Instagram reactions to my daily activities. I also want more than just the memory of my experiences, but it’s a lot of work, and the embarrassment I feel when snapping photos of my food or a particularly beautiful moment causes me to rush and snap a photo not worth posting anyway. When I do finally gather enough material to post to my social media accounts, I’m fiending to check the reactions of my acquaintances for the rest of the day.

We are all victims of it. It feels too good not to do it in the moment. It’s like smoking, it may strip you of your health and eventually will consume your life force, but what’s one cigarette today?

All that aside, my best self does not find any of this a harbinger of the apocalypse. I actually love seeing what my family, friends, and acquaintances are up to. I like to see what they are eating, where they are going, and what they find interesting enough to post. And when I see them posting a photo of themselves that’s pretending to be about something else, but is really because they think they looked good that day, I like that too, and it keeps me coming back.

One thing I love about social media, which stands apart from the documenting of one’s life, is the exposure to other people’s art. I spent many years being an artist as a musician. I struggled with sharing recordings because every recording contained something I didn’t like. Another way to put that is, every recording wasn’t perfect.

A side effect of not exposing others to my imperfect art was the inability to move on from the song. Over time, recordings would pile up in the form of endless tweaking and frustration, eventually smothering most of my musical projects, leaving behind little public evidence of all my work.

I am determined not to let this happen again.

This post feels imperfect. As I reread it before hitting the “publish” button, I feel that something is missing, or that it’s not interesting enough, or that it’s nothing new and therefore should be shelved in my journal. However, if I want to move on from these thoughts and ideas and make room for the ones that come next, I have to let it be witnessed.