Zombified

Walking down the street with a rhythm that isn't quite right―not quite walking, not quite dragging. As if lagging. Every step land slightly late. Shoes scrape the ground in a dull, repetitive sigh as they move in and out of stores.

Shoulders slumped forward, curved as though protecting something. Heads slightly tilted, chins drifting toward their chests. Never fully lifted. As if they're too tired to look ahead.

The most unsettling part is their eyes.

They're open―but glazed over. Empty.

Not searching. Not curious. Just on.

Like a light switch with a broken bulb.

They pass storefronts―maybe even go inside. Traffic lights.

Reflections in glass. The world still exists, but they don't register it.

People pass by unnoticed. Cars rush past unheard. The streets could be alive or abandoned―it wouldn't matter. It would all go unseen.

Every few steps, they stutter. Pause for half a second. Then resume their unknown course. There's no urgency in their movement. No destination. No awareness.

Clutched in their grimy hands is something lit up, humming softly. Thumbs move on instinct alone.

It's subtle enough that most don't notice it in themselves―only in others. We joke about it. We normalize it. But if you step back long enough, it becomes unsettling.

We're awake―but not alert.

Present―but not here.

Zombified.

Not in the cinematic way―no hunger for human flesh―but in a quieter, more accepted way. The kind that slips into daily routines unnoticed. The kind that feels productive while it drains something essential. Something you can never get back.

Buzz...

Buzz...

The screen lights up.

The Master Notification call its dog back to heel―and you obey. Without question. Without pause―or thought.

Reaching for it without intention. Opening an app without knowing why. Closing...only to reopen it seconds later. As if something might have changed in that brief moment. As if you're missing something―but you're not sure what.

And maybe...

you are.

Society has traded boredom for constant stimulation.

Silence for noise. Stillness for scrolling. The space once filled with wandering thoughts has been paved over the endless content. A wall has been built―not to protect wonder, but to prevent it. All that's left is consumption. No imagination.

The scariest part?

It doesn't feel wrong.

It feels normal.

We measure days in productivity and streaks. We equate presence with online availability. If we don't post it, share it, react to it―did it even happen?

Experiences lose weight when they aren't documented.

Moments feel incomplete without validation.

Somewhere along the way, the screen stopped being a tool and became an authority.

Information no longer asks to be questioned. It arrives already shaped, already ranked, already approved. Truth is trimmed until it fits neatly between distractions. Context is optional. Certainty is rewarded.

If it appears often enough, it feels real. IF it's shared enough, it feels true.

We no longer ask who said this or why it's being shown. We accept what surfaces first. What's loudest. What's easiest to digest. The screen decides what matters―and we trust it without realizing trust was never given.

The zombie doesn't need chains.

It just needs answers delivered quickly.

Misinformation doesn't spread because it's clever. It spreads because it's comfortable. Because it saves effort. Because thing requires stillness―and stillness has been trained out of us.

So―the zombie walks on, convinced it's informed. Certain. Confident. Never stopping long enough to ask whether what it knows was chosen...or simply handed to it.

And yet...when the screens go dark, something lingers.

A quiet restlessness.

A low hum of dissatisfaction.

A feeling that we're running on autopilot―moving through life rather than living it

Zombified doesn't mean lazy. It doesn't mean unaware. It means conditioned.

Conditioned to fill every empty second.

Conditioned to avoid introspection.

Conditioned to confuse connection with proximity―and engagement with meaning.

But can you break the cycle?

Breaking it doesn't require throwing your phone into the woods or rejecting modern life entirely. It starts smaller than that.

Uncomfortably smaller.

Breaking it doesn't require throwing your phone into the woods or rejecting modern life entirely. It starts smaller than that.

Uncomfortably smaller.

It starts with noticing.

Notice the reflex.

Notice the reach.

Notice the urge to distract instead of sit.

Because once you notice it, you can choose awareness―even if only for a moment.

And sometimes, that moment is enough to remind you:

You're not dead.

You're not hollow.

You're still capable of presence.

You just have to wake yourself up.

Just remember―the zombie keeps walking.

Not because it chooses to, but because the feed never ends.

One day, it will realize it lived an entire life without ever fully arriving in it. That the streets blurred together. That the days were consumed, not remembered.

And by the time it notices, the screen will still be glowing.

Waiting.

But everything else, has moved on without you

So, the question isn't whether zombies exist.

It's whether you'll look up long enough to prove you aren't one.

There's a strange discomfort that comes with turning the noise off. A momentary panic. An urge to reach back for the glow. Silence doesn't feel peaceful anymore―it feels wrong, like something important is being missed.

Not because it is..

but because we've been trained to believe it must be.

And when the screen finally goes dark, the question isn't what you'll lose―

it's what might surface in the absence of it.

Until next week...

-Fox