If my Instagram FYP was perfectly curated to my interests, like a moodboard stitched from my subconscious, every scroll would hit like the perfect song transition: a clip of Dominic Fike performing under orange lights, a Mitski lyric edit that hurts just right, and a Spider-Verse montage stitched together with Frank Ocean vocals. It would look less like social media and more like a digital collage of my brain. Splashes of paint, film-grain filters, and quiet chaos disguised as art. Each post would feel like dĆ©jĆ vu, like Iāve already lived it somewhere between a song lyric and a half-finished poem. It would know exactly who I am: part dreamer, part chaos, and chronically online.
The first reel? Someone turning their old morning routine into a short film, edited to a soft Clairo song. The comments say ācore memory unlockedā, and for some reason, it feels true. Maybe it is because I have done that too, filmed random moments and made them cinematic just to convince myself life is moving somewhere.
Then a live clip of Dominic Fikeās most recent performance, followed by a post that quotes a lyric like āphoto album, but the colour faded from itā. I save it, knowing I have seen it a hundred times before. Something is comforting about repetition online, the way the same ideas reappear like friends checking in.
Scroll again: a painting time-lapse. Muted colours, slow jazz, no talking. Someoneās caption says, āArt is what you canāt say out loud.ā I do not double-tap because I am trying to be mysterious, but I think about it for the rest of the day. Then a girl reading poetry in low light, crying softly to Laufeyās āPromiseā. I don’t know her, but I can understand the kind of sadness that makes you record yourself anyway.
Between the music, art, and feelings, the memes start showing up. The ones that hit right when you need them. A raccoon holding a baguette. A low-effort Dexter meme that makes me giggle a little too hard. A meme about overthinking that feels too specific. They make me laugh, but they also remind me that humour is how we survive, not just online, but in life generally. There is comfort in knowing that somewhere, someone else is also staring at their ceiling, making jokes about their existential dread.
A Spider-Verse edit appears next. Miles Morales spinning through galaxies while a Tyler, the Creator remix fades in. Somehow, it feels personal. I enjoy stories about characters who do not fit in, who rewrite what they are āsupposedā to be, āanomalies”, as Spider-Verse would put it, and it makes me pause for a second too long.
Then a photo dump: film cameras, museum corners, blurry friends, and people in oversized jackets pretending life is a movie. The caption reads, āJust existing, but trying to make it aesthetic.ā I would comment āsameā, but I just saved it to my āinspo for a life Iām not livingā folder.
Somewhere between an edit of the movie āLife of Piā with Unnakul Naane in the background and inside jokes of different fandoms, there is a post of Lana Del Rey sitting in a diner, sipping coffee like heartbreak is just another habit. The algorithm really said: you like beauty, you like sadness, and you like feeling too much. And it is right.
Every few scrolls, fashion slips in. A video of someone layering jewellery, or a creatively edited mirror selfie with an outfit I desperately want in my closet. There is something I love about how people online turn ordinary outfits into self-expression. It is not about trends; it is about the feeling of showing up in the world as someone you chose to be that day.
By now, my feed feels eerily accurate. It knows I will stop for an outfit reel by Wisdm that is edited to perfection. It knows a Marvel edit will still make me emotional. It knows a delusional meme about how Frank Ocean will release more music soon, which always makes me laugh.
And maybe that is why I do not hate the algorithm as much as I say I do, because when it gets it right, when it feels like it actually sees me, it is like holding up a mirror that does not judge, just reflects.
At some point, I stop scrolling and realise my FYP doesn’t just know my interests. It understands how I feel about them. The calm of painting. The ache in a Mitski song. The humour that keeps everything from getting too heavy. It understands that I like stories that blend heartbreak with hope and music that evokes nostalgia in real time.
If that is what the algorithm ever figured out, how to feel instead of just show, I would probably never leave the app. Because it would not just show me content, it would show me myself.