The old internet had a next button at the bottom of the page, and a brief moment of deciding whether to press it. At some point the button vanished and the screen learned to go on forever, and I never once wondered why. Once I knew, the way to stop showed itself too.
Infinite scroll was built to spare users the trouble of pressing next page, but that trouble was the one gap where the should-I-stop question got asked. An endless screen sends no stopping signal, which leaves one option: placing the signal yourself, in advance, outside the screen, as a time, a count, a posture, a place, or a next task.
Infinite scroll was first devised in 2006 by an interface designer. The aim was modest: pressing next page and waiting for a reload while browsing search results or photo lists was tedious, so let the page extend itself as you go. A design born from the genuine wish to make things easier.
The interesting part: that designer has said publicly, more than once since, that he regrets what he built. The small labor of turning the page, he realized too late, was the moment where a person asked themselves, have I seen enough? Convenience and the stopping point had been living in the same spot.
People stop when an end shows itself. The plate empties and the meal concludes. A chapter closes and the book asks: continue? There's a well-known experiment where larger plates increased how much people ate, and infinite scroll is a plate with no bottom. Full or not, the plate never empties, so the signal to quit never sends.
I felt this most at night. Watching short-form before sleep, the that's-enough feeling never once came from the screen. It came from aching eyes, or the kid stirring, or dawn light in the window. The stopping signal always arrived from outside the screen. Which also means: a signal the screen won't send can be placed outside the screen in advance.
| Signal | How to build it | Who it fits |
|---|---|---|
| Time | Set the end time before starting, alarm on | People who never check the clock once they start |
| Count | Ten videos, five posts: a number, counted | People who count better than they feel time |
| Posture | Seated only. Lying down means off | People whose longest sessions happen in bed |
| Place | Living room only. Bedroom and bathroom are out | People who watch anywhere in the house |
| Next task | Pre-decide what happens after | People who keep going because nothing comes next |
I tried all five. Two survived: time and place. Counting got lost mid-count, and posture blurred into a half-recline on the sofa. Time survives because the alarm does the counting, and place survived because the after-nine drawer meant there was simply nowhere left to watch.
Resenting the design deserves about a minute. The screen isn't going to change, so what changes has to be the seat and the clock on this side of it.
Sumbi's dive fixes its end at the start. Pick a length from 10 minutes to 4 hours, put the phone down, and the haenyeo goes under, surfacing with the sumbisori breath-whistle when the time fills. The end the screen never gives, the dive sets in its place.
Start a dive with an end →Deciding to stop mid-watch is too late: the next video is already loaded. Before opening, say the number out loud, twenty minutes or ten videos, start the timer, then open the app. The order is the trick. Changing that order alone visibly cut my nights.
The alarm rings and just-this-one appears. That one is the infinity again. When the alarm fires, the screen goes off even mid-video. The lingering wish is normal and gone in three minutes. It took me several tries before this one held.
The alarm, the drawer, the seat: things that fire without your memory. A signal entrusted to willpower is the first thing to vanish on a tired night, and the hour after my kid's bedtime was exactly that night.
The screen is still endless. But now I have an end. One line from a phone-down day. The alarm rang, and there was no one more.
This article is general information, not medical advice. If sleep or daily life stays disrupted, talk to a professional.
Sumbi