compulsion

. . . or is it obsession? I get confused. The screen says: 6:17 in its lean, sans serif sleekness. It tells me the time, doesn't it, that screen. Various symbols tell me if I have a text, a message from someone near or far. Press the home button. Wake it up. "It" is a device. Thank God-the Universe-the cosmos that I'm not on Facebook. There'd be more curating, checking, calculating, catching up, observing, weighing, reacting. At least I know my Twitter presence is utter, vacuous nonsense. Swipe the screen again. Wake it up. What's the latest? What is the latest notification, the crawl of lights on a building at Times Square, my own personal, idiosyncratic version of it. What about the hum, the vibration. Wasn't that it, a nearly imperceptible hum on the table at the coffee shop. Or was it the phantom hum, the one people falsely feel in their pocket even when it is not there. Click home. Or side button. Alert it, rouse it. What if I am missing a reply, taunt, compliment, accusation, headline, warning, omen, fact, fiction, question, assertion, tug, pat, hug, shove. But I just looked. I just saw the screen, moments ago. Nothing but ennui and quotidian banality. Is that it, a compulsive craving for excitement spurred by something, anything, good, bad, or indifferent? Indifferent, you say? Isn't "it" infinitely indifferent to my whims, wants, fears, validations, excretions, accretions, and deletions? Click. home screen. Nothing changed. Just the time. 6:29.