In an age where pixels replace touch, notifications replace conversations, and dopamine is dispensed not from syringes or syrups but from screens, we must ask with increasing urgency: are we all addicts now? The world has seamlessly slipped into the embrace of its glowing devices, so much so that the very notion of reality has begun to shape itself around virtual pulses. It is not just a philosophical shift, but a neurochemical one. This is not a metaphorical addiction—it is real, measurable, and alarmingly universal.
Unlike opium dens or speakeasies, the theatre of this addiction is open to all, public, even celebrated. We don’t need dim alleys or secret clubs; we need only a charged phone. It is in our palms when we wake up, tucked under our pillows when we sleep, and sits silently between us and our loved ones at the dinner table, glowing like a shrine. The new substance doesn’t smell or sting or intoxicate in the traditional sense—it pings, scrolls, streams, and vibrates.
The classic symptoms of addiction—compulsion, withdrawal, tolerance, loss of control—are all mirrored in our relationship with technology. How many of us reach for our phones first thing in the morning, not even for communication, but as a reflex? How often do we feel a twitch of anxiety when the battery falls below 10%, as though we are losing access to our oxygen supply? How many feel phantom vibrations, or worse, imagine a notification when there is none—a hallucination in its own right? These are not scattered incidents; they are systemic, widespread, and culturally normalized.
This addiction is cunning. It does not declare itself through dramatic ruin or visible collapse. It creeps in subtly, cloaked in convenience and the illusion of connection. A parent scrolls endlessly while their child tugs at their sleeve. A couple sits together at a restaurant, both staring into their phones, not each other. An entire generation believes that documenting a moment is more valuable than living it. We curate our lives instead of experiencing them. We react rather than reflect.
Perhaps the most sinister aspect of this new substance is its social sanction. Traditional addictions come with shame, stigma, and intervention. But screen addiction is often rewarded. The more plugged in we are, the more productive we appear. Constant connectivity is equated with efficiency. Our addiction to screens is repackaged as multitasking, our inability to be still or silent marketed as engagement. There are no rehab centers for screen addiction, though arguably they should exist, especially for the young.
Children, in particular, are the most vulnerable. The developing brain, still soft and shaping, is now being hardwired for distraction. Attention spans shrink, imagination rusts, and boredom—once the cradle of creativity—becomes unbearable. A child handed a tablet to keep them quiet in a restaurant is not being pacified; they are being inducted. What was once a tool has become a pacifier, a teacher, a babysitter, and a best friend. But behind the cartoon colours and gameified learning lies an architecture of manipulation, designed to extract maximum attention and, in turn, maximum profit.
The algorithms do not sleep. They learn from our swipes, predict our cravings, and serve us the next hit before we even realize we want it. They are not neutral. They are engineered to addict. Social media platforms, streaming services, and online marketplaces all operate on the same neurochemical principle that fuels gambling: intermittent reinforcement. The unpredictability of rewards—a like, a message, a deal—keeps us hooked. This is the same principle that makes slot machines so devastatingly addictive. Except this slot machine is in your pocket, and it pays in data and dopamine.
We are now trading our time, attention, and in many cases our mental health, for the illusion of control and connectivity. Loneliness has not vanished with global connection—it has deepened. The more we connect online, the more isolated we often feel. The screen becomes a wall as much as it is a window. We perform instead of communicate. We compare instead of relate. The likes we receive feel like love, but dissolve into nothing. The scrolling never ends because the hunger it tries to feed is bottomless.
The digital world promises escape, but what it often delivers is disconnection from the real. Real touch, real silence, real boredom, real sorrow, and real joy—these primal human experiences are being edited out. The online persona is airbrushed, filtered, captioned, but deeply fragmented. We become spectators of our own lives, constantly looking through a lens, evaluating moments not by how they feel but by how they will look. The desire to be seen replaces the desire to be understood.
And then there is the body—the ancient temple now dragged into modern fatigue. Our eyes sting, our backs ache, our sleep is stolen. Our fingers are numb from scrolling, yet our minds are never still. We live in a permanent state of low-grade anxiety, as though something urgent is always waiting. We don’t rest—we recharge, and even in that act, we are impatient. Even our leisure is measured in clicks, likes, and metrics. The ancient rhythm of night and day is flattened by the blue light of the screen.
Are we all addicts now? Not in the sense that we have all lost control, but in the sense that we are all being controlled. Controlled not by a tyrant or a regime, but by mechanisms of persuasion embedded in the very tools we depend on. We are tracked, tagged, and nudged. Our habits are shaped in invisible ways. The loss of autonomy is not dramatic—it is gradual. We are not overpowered by a single moment of weakness but worn down by endless moments of surrender.
To break free—or even pause—requires not abstinence but awareness. To recognize that silence is not an absence but a presence. That solitude is not loneliness but space for self. That the world outside the screen is not dull or slow, but textured and deep. It requires the courage to be bored, the strength to delay gratification, and the willingness to be present.
The solution is not to destroy technology—it is a remarkable tool—but to dethrone it. To put it back in its place. To reclaim the sovereignty of our attention. This means designing environments that encourage real interaction, creating digital boundaries, and cultivating rituals that anchor us in the physical world. It means teaching children how to wonder without Wi-Fi and allowing conversations to unfold without the interruption of a ping.
It also means confronting our own emptiness—the silence we fear and the feelings we suppress. For addiction, in all its forms, is a substitute for connection: to others, to meaning, to the self. If the digital world is our escape, we must ask—what are we escaping from? And can we face it instead of flee?
There is no detox program for the soul, but there is a return. A return to attention, intention, and depth. To write a letter instead of send a message. To walk without headphones. To eat without screens. To meet a friend and really see them. To listen, really listen, without rehearsing our reply. These are the new acts of rebellion.
Perhaps the greatest threat of this addiction is that it hides itself as progress. That it cloaks dependency in the garb of advancement. But to be human is not to be constantly connected—it is to be conscious, to be reflective, and to be present. In the end, it is not the screen that is the enemy, but our forgetting. Forgetting how to feel, how to be, how to wait, how to wonder.
If we are all addicts now, let it not be the end of our story. Let it be the beginning of a reckoning. A moment when we look up from the glow and remember the stars. When we listen to silence and hear our own breath. When we turn off the noise and discover the symphony of the real. Only then can we say: we are not just users—we are alive.
(Author is RK columnist and can be reached at: [email protected])
