It's so funny how social media was just this fun thing, and now

“It’s so funny how social media was just this fun thing, and now it’s this monster that consumes so many millennial lives.” Thus spoke Cazzie David, a voice of her generation, daughter of humor yet heir to anxiety. Her words ring not as laughter but as lamentation—a cry from within the glittering labyrinth of screens and shadows. What began as play has become prison; what once connected hearts now feeds upon them. The “funny” she names is not comedy, but irony—the bitter humor of watching one’s own creation turn into a beast that devours its makers.

In the beginning, social media was a garden of innocence. Friends shared joy, memories, and mirth, and the world seemed smaller, closer, kinder. Like the early fire of the ancients, it promised warmth and light. Yet as the flame grew, so too did its hunger. The gods of the modern age—algorithms and approval—whispered to the hearts of men and women, offering attention in place of affection, validation in place of meaning. And many bowed. Thus, the tool became the tyrant. As in the myth of Prometheus, humanity stole divine fire, only to find that it could scorch as easily as it could shine.

Cazzie David’s lament echoes that of countless souls who dwell in this digital empire. The monster she names is not of flesh or claw—it is woven of envy, comparison, and endless noise. It feeds on time and peace, on the tender silence that once nourished thought. The youth who were promised freedom have found themselves chained by their own reflections, chasing hearts and followers as though their worth depended on numbers that vanish at dawn. This is not new; the ancients warned of idols, false gods that demand sacrifice. Only now, the altar glows with blue light, and the offerings are hours, attention, and selfhood.

Consider the tale of Narcissus, who gazed upon his own reflection until he drowned in its beauty. What is our age if not a grand retelling of that myth? Every screen is a pond, every selfie a reflection, every scroll a descent into obsession. Narcissus could not look away, and neither can we. Yet the tragedy was never his vanity alone—it was his isolation. He mistook image for identity, echo for understanding. So too do we, in this era of mirrors without faces, confuse presence with performance, and connection with control.

But let not despair reign. Even monsters may be tamed, if we learn their nature. The funny thing, as Cazzie David says, is that the beast was born from our own longing—to be seen, to be known, to belong. These are not evils; they are sacred fires misplaced. The cure, then, is not rejection but remembrance: to use the tool as servant, not master. To reclaim the joy of simplicity, to rediscover conversation without performance, and solitude without fear. We must learn once more how to be alone, not as punishment, but as prayer.

The ancients had their oracles, their temples, their myths—places where the human spirit touched the infinite. Today, our temples glow in our palms, and our prayers are typed. Yet within this irony lies hope: the same power that isolates can also awaken. A post may deceive, but it may also inspire. A platform may imprison, but it may also amplify truth. The choice is ours. As fire can warm or burn, social media can create or consume. The difference lies in who commands it—the heart or the hunger.

So, children of the digital age, take heed of this wisdom. Step back from the screen and remember the sun. Speak face to face, feel the weight of silence, walk without documenting the path. Let your worth be measured by your kindness, not by your likes. For every moment spent gazing at the digital glow is a moment unseen by the world that still breathes and waits beyond it. And when you return to the web, do so as master, not slave—as creator, not captive.

Thus, the lesson of Cazzie David’s words is not despair, but awakening. The monster is real, yes—but it was born of us, and therefore can be unmade by us. Tame it with awareness, feed it with truth, and keep your spirit whole. For though the age may be ruled by algorithms, the soul still belongs to eternity.