Dear Instagram

Dear Instagram,

 Long time, no speak.

 But, that’s not uncommon for you and me.

I believe the last fight was over… time, wasn’t it?

Yes, I remember. You had cheated me one too many hours, stripping me of my productivity and puttying the hole it left with indolence. We ended things on the beach that day in January, at dusk, when I tapped the big red trash can over your wobbly image.

The time before that, we fought over theft. Specifically, your talent for robbery. A silent bystander, I watched you steal precious moments. Family dinners. Friendly gatherings. Days in the park. Nights at the pub. Births. Weddings. Funerals. The destructor, in the palm of every hand. Always there. Always present. Always taking. I couldn’t endorse that anymore. I cut you off.

You have people convinced, you know? Convinced that their breakfast really matters. Convinced that they need to use a thing called a “filter” on a thing called a “selfie” to be a thing mysteriously synonymous with “beauty”. Convinced, resolutely, that their worth comes from posting the perfect story, in the perfect moment, with the perfect light, and the PERFECT inability to be present in the natural, unfiltered, caption-less, perfect moments that real life offers.

But, despite all your flaws that fired my blood past boiling point, I realised a horrible, embarrassing truth. I have missed you.

In the web of your wickedness, there were corners of light. The line you cast between me and people thousands of miles away was rather… spectacular. And these people, regular as they seem, taught me a lot of stuff. They taught me all the different shapes creativity comes in. All the different shapes bodies come in. How to cook things. How to eat things. Places that are far. Places that are near. That sometimes, a stranger’s breakfast really does matter.

Instagram, my difficult lover, my complex friend, my loathsome enemy, I said, will we ever find equilibrium?

Do you know what I realised? All these years, I have been using you completely wrong. Abiding by your silly etiquette rules. Liking squares that I don’t really like. Scrolling, without even looking. Pretending to be unbothered when you were whipped out in front of me.

Last week, I bore through you like a plague of termites on a fallen log, stripping you bare of anything that came close to the edge of disinterest. You’re still not invited to dinner. Or friendly gatherings. And no, there’s no place for you in the bedroom. But now, my squares are all rather… satiating. I actually enjoy my visits.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m glad your back. That I’m back.

Kind of.
For now.

Your reluctant companion,

Kelsey.