I wake up and the first thing I do is check if I have any messages or emails. When I turn on the Internet, my phone confirms it: new messages, notifications, reminders arrive. In the bathroom, I look at my face while the voice from yesterday's call is still ringing in my ears. "Everything is urgent," someone said. I nodded my head even though no one saw me. It has become my habit since I use an android phone. I talk a lot during the day, but I rarely say what I really mean. My sentences became short, screen-friendly. My emotions reduced to icons. When I laugh, I wonder if it's my laugh or a learned reaction.
In the evening I turn off the internet and phone earlier than usual. For the first five minutes I feel disoriented. Then I realize: I forget the noise. I sit in silence and listen to my own breathing. It's not perfect, it's not optimized, but it's mine.
I remember the time when there was a wait. When silence meant presence, not emptiness. Then you knew where you were because you were there, and not in several places at once.
I don't know if I am against the modern world, but I only know that in it I must consciously choose the moments in which I am present.
I didn't miss anything important that evening. But after a long time I felt peace and joy like when I was little.