Article Title: The Hijacked Interface
By Nolan

I recently installed Snapchat-not because I wanted to "snap," but because I was curious. It seemed like a harmless enough messaging app. Something lightweight. Quick. Private. But what I found wasn't light at all.

I opened the app, and within seconds my screen was hijacked. Content I didn't ask for, faces I didn't know, bodies I didn't want to see, and algorithms I didn't invite. The UI was designed not to facilitate communication, but to collapse it into something addictive, visual, and disposable.

And that's when it hit me: this isn't a tool. It's a stimulus trap.

Snapchat isn't failing to support intentional interaction-it's actively designed to prevent it. The mechanics of swiping, autoplaying, and jumping between interfaces are engineered to make you forget why you opened the app in the first place. Your original purpose dissolves in a haze of novelty and notification.

You go in looking for a message.  
You leave wondering how your mind got rerouted.

I grew up believing technology would become more powerful and more customizable, but also more human. I imagined a future where we all had real email addresses-tied to our names, not platforms-and where contact across services would become easier, not harder. I thought of technology as a way to preserve continuity, not erase it.

Instead, we got apps like Snapchat.

We got feeds that constantly overwrite themselves. Platforms that isolate us in "now," and train us to forget what came before. Systems that discourage archiving, ownership, or reflection-because all of that slows the scroll.

I no longer use social media.  
I don't miss it.

But what I do feel is a kind of quiet grief-not for the people, but for the vision. The old internet wasn't perfect, but it had intention. You could write a paragraph. Save a file. Share an image in a way that meant something. And now, just opening an app in public might flood your screen with skin and spectacle, without warning.

This isn't progress. It's erosion.

So I built this site.

Not to broadcast, not to chase attention-but to create a shelf. A place for sentences. For images. For thought that can live longer than a swipe. Something that won't vanish unless I want it to.

I prefer qwerty keyboards. I like .txt files. I send messages in paragraphs, not bursts. That's not nostalgia. It's a stance-against erosion. For dignity.

This is how I stay oriented.