The past decade and a half has been a wild, unpredictable ride—a roller coaster with too many twists, turns, and loops to count. It’s like a TV show that refuses to end, each season more chaotic than the last. And the kicker? We can’t unsubscribe. This is life, and we’re all strapped in, whether we like it or not.

I’ve been a blogger since 2002. My archives are buried in the depths of my hard drive, with fragments of my digital past preserved by AI on internet archives. Back then, blogging was my sanctuary—a place to vent, reflect, and create without the pressure of followers or algorithms. It wasn’t a job; it was an escape. I designed my own themes, tinkered with code, and crafted graphics from scratch. It was raw, personal, and deeply fulfilling. My teenage angst found a home on the interwebs, and for a while, it was enough.

But by 2008—or maybe 2012—the blogging landscape began to shift. Social media exploded, and with it came a new breed of self-made webpreneurs. The blogging community, once a haven for creativity and solitude, slowly faded. Readers migrated to Facebook (RIP, Friendster) and Twitter, where thoughts were condensed into blurbs and status updates. What started as a space for connection devolved into a breeding ground for gossip, shallow entertainment, and toxicity. Social media became the new nuclear plant, and toxicity was its energy source.

Then came the era of apps and visual storytelling. Instagram pioneered the rise of “phlogs” (photo blogs), where pictures spoke a thousand words. Suddenly, you didn’t need to know how to code or design to be someone. YouTube lurked in the background, waiting for its moment, until technology advanced—3G, 4G, 5G, and beyond. Android versions multiplied like diabetes, and Apple became more than just a fruit.

Influence, in all its forms, became a career. Videos replaced photos as the dominant mode of expression, and clips spoke louder than pictures ever could. But just as we adjusted to this new reality, TikTok emerged, reducing creativity to 15-second bursts of randomness. Why bother with thoughtful content when you can stick a banana on a wall and call it art?

The irony is palpable. In a world where everyone is encouraged to express themselves, creativity has been reduced to a time-bound, algorithm-driven race for likes and shares. One-third of netizens are no longer readers or commenters—they’re influencers or aspiring to be. Privacy is a rarity, and anonymity is suspicious. The line between truth and lies has blurred, leaving us in a digital landscape where authenticity is hard to find.

I’ll admit, I don’t thrive in this generation. I crave depth and meaning, even as my professional life revolves around building platforms for those who thrive on others’ addictions. It’s a strange dichotomy, one that leaves me questioning: Where do I go from here? What do I do when I’m not playing the role of web developer, social media manager, or content creator?

A voice in my head tells me to retreat to my writings. I dust off old notebooks, open digital folders filled with works-in-progress marked “KIV” (Keep in View). Some pieces make me proud; others make me cringe. But as I sift through them, I realize I’m not alone in this struggle. Somewhere out there, there’s still a blogger who writes for the love of it, not for the likes. A thinker who shares their thoughts without selling their soul.

Then came 2020.

The pandemic forced a paradigm shift in how we define social norms, both offline and online. For all its challenges, it also brought unexpected benefits. There’s less pressure to perform, a different kind of stress, and an opportunity for growth. People are picking up new hobbies, perfecting old ones, and rediscovering their creativity. It’s a silver lining in an otherwise dark cloud.

But let’s not sugarcoat it. The pandemic has had devastating effects—socially, politically, and economically. Many are struggling, and we don’t know when this will end. May Allah guide us through these tough times.

For me, 2020 was a turning point. I looked at my domain and realized I didn’t have to do this alone or just for myself. The selfish voice in my head was replaced by something hopeful—a chance for progress. As an INTJ, that thought alone was enough to reignite a flame in my soul. It’s time to hustle.

While writing for online magazines, I noticed something troubling: the content was drowning in ads, and the articles lacked depth. It felt like a black hole of gossip and unreliable news. Sponsor ads aren’t inherently bad—they’re a legitimate way to sustain a platform—but when the content loses its purpose, what’s the point? The target audience may be mercurial, but that doesn’t mean we should sacrifice meaning for clicks.

What I miss is the personal connection—the sense of being truly connected across distances. I want to create a platform where people can express themselves, whether they’re new to their art or simply bored and ready to try something new. This journal will document every tear, drop of sweat, and ounce of effort poured into this journey. It’s not just about creating content; it’s about creating something meaningful.

So here’s to the next chapter—a return to authenticity, depth, and connection. Because in a world of 15-second clips and viral trends, there’s still room for stories that matter.