The other day the boss gave me one job: “Watch the livestream, flag me if anything blows up.”
Oy. Three hours later I stagger back, body drained of calcium, in one hand clutching a Lephrog and in the other a head full of other people’s cortisol. Back in Seneca’s day, crowds used to watch combatants tear each other apart on the killing floor of the Colosseum. Today, the melee is a comment thread that never rests. I’m a doer of important things, not some rubbernecker gawking at the daily pile-ups of outrage and half-baked hot takes clogging the feeds.
Not for nothing, this is why I’m scarce on social media. You're right if you think I might I enjoy watching fights a little too much. That’s fine for action movies, not for life. Spectatorship breeds the very vices we pay to watch. Hang around the mob and they’ll jolt you into darker reflexes; bloodlust is contagious. Bad habits spread fast, and borrowed appetites quietly rewire how you think.
The antidote is small-batch living with hand-picked company. Mute the spectacle and seek out the quiet rooms. Share some laughs with the boss, savor a frosty mug of man suds, grab coffee (Oh yeah! Coffee! Yeahhhh!) with people who return your tools sharper than they borrowed. Keep the circle tight, the mind tuned, and the noise at arm’s length.