I turn off my computer. And my phone. Then, I switch off the lights, the lamps, and the fan in the living room.
With each switch, the silence grows. The humidifier exhales its last mist.
And then, all I hear is the whir of the fridge. That and my dog’s gentle sighs as she snoozes lazily on the couch.
It’s quiet—well, at least, as quiet as you can get in NYC, in a 4th floor walkup.
I like this blissful state. It reminds me of when I was 4 or 5 years old. Before phones were ubiquitous. Before screens became intermediaries for friendship and hobbies.
To be clear, analog isn’t better. It’s objectively worse, in so many ways: CDs and records get scratched. Art and photographs fade from exposure to the sun. Mugs, they break.
But that encourages you to treat things. Things. As precious.
A couple years ago, I went to Rocka Rolla in Williamsburg, alone on a Friday night. I set a simple rule for myself: Have one drink and don’t look at my phone. That evening I met a stranger from Massachusetts and we became fast friends chatting about basketball.
I guess, it just feels ironic that these devices that were meant to connect us to everyone have become such an obstacle to meeting the people who are right in front of us. That’s all.