Apocalypse of a Curved Piece of Glass

I stare at this outdated gadget in my hand, its screen edges curving elegantly downwards, like the hem of a shy girl's skirt, or perhaps less flatteringly, like chronically malnourished ribs. Once upon a time, this curve was touted as a rainbow bridge to the future, the ultimate embodiment of technological aesthetics. Salesgirls, spitting effusively, claimed this arc held the universe's mysteries, allowing you to feel the pinnacle of ergonomic care in your grip, as if this phone wasn't for scrolling short videos and checking food delivery reviews, but for direct calls to God. I must admit, I believed it back then. Or rather, I wanted to believe. People have to believe in something, even if it's just a curved piece of glass. Just like when I was young, I believed love could last forever, only to discover it was even less resilient than this piece of glass.

Back then, it felt like the whole world had bent. The people on TV, on billboards, at the next table in the restaurant – every hand clutched this curved stunner. Straight screens? Those were antiques from the last century, primitive man's stone axe, a stone from a latrine pit, stinking and hard. Owning a curved screen was like having a steam engine in the Middle Ages; it represented advancement, fashion, and a subtle, almost imperceptible sense of superiority. Everyone caressed that smooth arc as if stroking a lover's skin, or more accurately, like petting a goose that laid golden eggs. Eyes glazed over, as if happiness and success would flow from that curved portion. In malls, people queued, exchanging hard-earned cash, still warm with body heat, for this cold, curved piece of glass, their faces beaming with the glow of participating in some grand historical process. They probably thought their lives, like the screen, would now overtake others on the curve, leaving the common multitude still using "slab bricks" in the dust, rushing towards the pinnacle of life, marrying the fair, rich, and beautiful, or the tall, rich, and handsome, thereafter living the kind of carefree happy life depicted in commercials.

However, things are just this paradoxical. Like a gust of wind, without warning, the curved screen craze subsided. It receded completely, without even leaving a ripple. As if overnight, those once-considered-outdated flat screens made a comeback, reoccupying counters and people's palms. The reasons? Oh, there were plenty, and each sounded so righteous, so resonant. Some said curved screens were prone to accidental touches, like a neurotic virgin who shrieks at the slightest brush of the edge, causing delays in grabbing red envelopes or replying to the boss's WeChat – a capital offense. Some said applying screen protectors was difficult, that the curve was a tempered glass killer, as delicate as the princess and the pea, too expensive to maintain. Others complained the curved part reflected light, dazzling the eyes, especially in sunlight, practically blinding your damn eyes, as if it were a conspiracy hatched between phone manufacturers and eye clinics. Still others, in a tone of great enlightenment, declared that the slight curve, apart from being good-looking (or rather, once considered good-looking), was fucking useless, purely taking off your pants to fart—utterly redundant. You see, the wisdom of the masses always arrives late, but when it comes to criticizing a has-been fad, they always find the most scathing angles.

And so, this curved piece of glass in my hand has become a kind of awkward relic. Like an imperial sword from a previous dynasty, or the jade seal of a deposed emperor, once illustrious, now fit only to gather dust in a corner. Walking down the street, I secretly observe people using flat phones with composure, swiping on flat screens, their fingers dancing effortlessly, as if that era when everyone was curved had never existed, as if it were a collective fever dream, leaving only a vague sense of absurdity upon waking. Nobody talks about curved screens anymore, just like nobody mentions the lame love poems they wrote during puberty, or the long-faded stars they once chased. It disappeared so thoroughly, so silently, as if sucked into a black hole of time. Those who were once fanatical about it, queued for it, lost sleep over it, now ignore it, perhaps even with a hint of disdain, as if saying, "Look, how could I have fallen for such a flashy but impractical thing back then?" It reminds me of those quickly forgotten slogans, or idols toppled overnight. The memory of the masses is sometimes shorter than a goldfish's, and far more snobbish. They forever chase the latest trend, spitting on what just became outdated, as if this proves they are eternally young, always at the forefront of the times. But in my eyes, this is nothing but a profound emptiness.

This curved piece of glass, was it wrong? It wasn't wrong. It's just a piece of glass, burdened by humans with too much meaning it couldn't possibly bear. It's like a monkey inexplicably pushed onto a pedestal; people burned incense and knelt before it, expecting it to bring favorable weather, promotions, and wealth, only to find it just squeaked chaotically and threw banana peels. So the people scattered in chaos, maybe even kicking the pedestal a couple of times, cursing "Fraud!", leaving the monkey on the pedestal stunned, its furry face filled with innocence and confusion, wondering what it did wrong. The fate of technology sometimes bears a striking resemblance to human fate, full of chance, misunderstanding, and the sorrow of abandonment.

I rub this smooth but useless curve, feeling a Kafkaesque absurdity. The fate of an object so profoundly mirrors a certain essence of human society: irrational fervor, blind conformity, and ultimately, that cold and inevitable forgetting. We chase novelty, not because we need it, but because we fear being left behind, fear being labeled "outdated." We discard old things, not because they are no longer useful, but because they are no longer fashionable, no longer serve as social currency, no longer prove we are keeping pace with the times, even if that pace stumbles towards the unknown. We are like a group of spinning tops, whipped by an invisible force, constantly rotating, afraid to stop, fearing that stopping means falling, means being trampled by ten thousand feet.

Perhaps the disappearance of the curved screen wasn't some inevitable technological iteration, but a collective aesthetic fatigue, a tacit value correction, or more bluntly, capital got bored with the game and switched to a new trick. We once believed the curve represented the future, sexiness, infinite possibilities; now we feel flatness symbolizes pragmatism, efficiency, a return to simplicity. Who knows? Maybe in a few years, triangular or wavy screens will become the new darlings, and people will fabricate a whole new set of rhetoric, citing classics and quoting extensively, to prove that is the ultimate form of the universe, the lighthouse of human civilization. History always repeats itself, though each time in different costumes, but the audience below the stage seems never to learn to be a bit smarter. They are always so forgetful, yet always so easily excited.

Night deepens, the neon lights outside cast grotesque, colorful reflections on the curved screen, distorting into a bizarre abstract painting, like a Starry Night painted by a drunken Van Gogh. I look at my own distorted face in the screen, the expression half-smiling, half-pained, like the agony of being constipated for three days and nights. This curved piece of glass, like a silent witness, has observed an era's clamor and silence, witnessed humanity's fervor and indifference. It says nothing, but its cold touch and that futile curve seem to silently narrate a story about humans, technology, and existence – a story both comical and desolate. I let out a sigh, long and cold, like a wind blowing from Siberia. I don't know whether to feel sorry for the fate of this glass, or sad for our own fate. Perhaps we are all just props on this vast stage, arbitrarily bent and discarded by some unseen force. Eventually, we all become flat, or are completely forgotten in some dust-filled corner, awaiting the next apocalypse that no one asks about and no one cares about. And outside, the night is thick, silently swallowing everything, whether curved or flat.