The Age of Glow-Faces

There was a time when human beings walked the earth with their heads up, eyes open, and hearts turned toward the horizon. Now, in the age of Glow-Faces, the horizon is a five-inch screen, and the only stars most people see are the push notifications lighting up their cheeks in the dark.

We live in an app-to-app existence, a life dictated by swipes, taps, and dopamine drips. People no longer measure their day by the sun, but by the holy vibration of the Notification Nuns. Each buzz is a call to worship, a reminder that meaning can be delivered in 140 characters or less. Some bow to TikTok, becoming full-fledged TikTopians, citizens of a kingdom where time dissolves into meaningless scrolls. Others wander malls and grocery stores as Wi-Finders, whispering their sacred chant: “What’s the Wi-Fi password?”

And let’s not forget the Swipe-Slaves—the thumb-scrollers, forever mining the infinite feed for a nugget of satisfaction. Or the Appostles, spreading the gospel of selfies and hashtags to their glowing congregations. They aren’t connected to reality; they’re the Disconnected Connected—tethered to everything, grounded in nothing.

The tragedy is obvious. The humor is unavoidable. Take the phone away and many would have a stroke before breakfast. Remove the internet, and they’d wander the streets like zombies sniffing for Wi-Fi signals. It’s embarrassing as a fellow human, but it’s also hilarious. This is what civilization has boiled down to—grown adults with the attention span of toddlers, walking billboards for corporate algorithms.

Meanwhile, the few who step away—who ditch Facebook, skip TikTok, and keep their minds sharp—see the circus for what it is. Glow-Faces in the night. Screen-starers waiting for destiny to be delivered in a ping. It’s tragic, yes, but maybe the best way to fight it is to laugh at it. After all, satire sometimes lands where sermons cannot.