The Hive Mind

By Marissa Rotolo

@faiezabirma via PInterest 

An overwhelming hole in my chest in the shape of my cellphone. A void in my brain that leaves me wondering how I once studied for exams and clung to information that truly mattered. Eyes that once relished; rest that once felt meaningful.

This is the cynical cycle of thought that materializes after a doomscroll—when ten minutes turn into six hundred, and skipping one book on my shelf turns into cobwebs collecting dust.

I used to have hobbies. I used to feel like my brain was exploding with thoughts and ideas. I yearned for creativity and challenge.

I feel uninteresting when my thoughts blur into a hive mind, indistinguishable from those shaped by the same “For You Page.” When every idle moment is filled with curated opinions and aesthetics, originality begins to feel less like a trait and more like a coincidence.

Alongside doomscrolling, my other pet peeve is complaining about a problem without seeking a solution. So, I have set a goal for myself. I do not want to vandalize my phone. It is foolish to assume that in 2026 one can exist without a phone and still remain connected—but I do want to be bored again. To reclaim authorship over distraction. Moments dedicated to thought.

When I was in sixth grade, I was a child with decidedly childlike ambitions. I wanted to be a makeup connoisseur—partly because I wanted my mother to stop doing my makeup for dance competitions, but also because I was bored. I committed fully to the hobby, accumulating a small collection of drugstore makeup palettes, lipsticks, and the occasional wildcard product. It was less about mastery and more about curiosity—something to fill the empty space. This skill grew slowly, through boredom, experimentation, and repetition—long before my interests were filtered through an algorithm.

Fast-forward to college: I became the friend who did everyone’s hair and makeup before a night out, often alongside my roommate, Charlotte. I know exactly which products work for me and which do not. I am confident in my abilities—and more importantly, I enjoy it.

This is what interest looks like when it is cultivated slowly, without performance or external validation. It reminds me that curiosity does not disappear; it simply waits for space.

Growing past the hive mind means choosing to be interesting to myself before allowing my thoughts to be shaped for me—liking things because my heart gravitates toward them rather than because an algorithm suggests I should. In a world that constantly fills silence, growth begins by letting it exist.

Cover Image: @Jonathan Ordonez via Pinterest