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The lost art of noticing
Mar. 28th, 2026 07:49 pmA generous $20 tip from work earlier today (at a performance job that doesn't typically yield them) led me to the local taqueria. It's a convenient 5-minute walk from my apartment. I proudly wear my PJs to local haunts and did no differently today. Partway there--my pockets stuffed with my wallet, phone, keys, and airpods--I realized I wasn't going to end up needing half my things.
Dependence on technology is an insidious thing. It slithers over and into us, controlling us without us even knowing. Through all tech's benefits, it's critical to keep those downsides in mind. I can't say I would have pondered them so thoroughly tonight had I not already born a headache.
I decided not to use my phone the entire outing. I already had a headache, and I really wouldn't need it regardless. It's not like anything urgent was hovering over me; at least, not at that exact moment. But we are so deeply linked to our devices that the act of pulling out a phone is an unquestionable instinct. That is: you don't question your instinct. Instincts are designed to allow you to thrive in the world you have built. But is that the only world there is?
It's kind of incredible just how much there is to see when you actively stop to notice things. Sat at the outdoor tables with my food, I ate slowly. I loosely dropped in on nearby conversations and wondered at how separate my life is from theirs, that their talk concerns people I will never know. I noticed the way the trees in the parking lot lined up with one another. I noticed the clover-looking leaf that hung beneath the brush in the nearby pot. I noticed all the people walking to and from their cars and how they engaged with one another; how they paid their unrelated peers no mind. I noticed how strangely self-aware I inversely became just by noticing these things, and I noticed the backwards kind of comfort I found within that sort of terrifying feeling.
At least once a week I am struck by the reality of this universe we live in. That we live on a giant rock spinning through space, and my day-to-day concerns are centered on whatever the made-up concept of "Illinois" is. We live within such small and simple regards to a universe that extends wider than our minds are equipped to handle. That said, we really do contain multitudes, if we are able to notice those things at all.
I understand the same as anyone that it often feels impossible to put down the phone. It's a tool designed to make our world more bearable, condensing our experience of it into something algorithmically sifted and easier to sit within. But the longer we live this way, the harder it becomes to fight our instincts: the ones we know are detrimental, but "cannot help."
Not everything you notice will make you uncomfortable. Some of it will. But isn't that discomfort what makes existence interesting? It's our gift to notice, to think, and to feel. Why waste it?
(For what it's worth, I did pull out my phone, once: to update my team on what I'd accomplished that day. It could have waited until later, but the threat of losing one's current thought to the aether is real enough to inspire a reasonable break of metaphorical immersion.)
Dependence on technology is an insidious thing. It slithers over and into us, controlling us without us even knowing. Through all tech's benefits, it's critical to keep those downsides in mind. I can't say I would have pondered them so thoroughly tonight had I not already born a headache.
I decided not to use my phone the entire outing. I already had a headache, and I really wouldn't need it regardless. It's not like anything urgent was hovering over me; at least, not at that exact moment. But we are so deeply linked to our devices that the act of pulling out a phone is an unquestionable instinct. That is: you don't question your instinct. Instincts are designed to allow you to thrive in the world you have built. But is that the only world there is?
It's kind of incredible just how much there is to see when you actively stop to notice things. Sat at the outdoor tables with my food, I ate slowly. I loosely dropped in on nearby conversations and wondered at how separate my life is from theirs, that their talk concerns people I will never know. I noticed the way the trees in the parking lot lined up with one another. I noticed the clover-looking leaf that hung beneath the brush in the nearby pot. I noticed all the people walking to and from their cars and how they engaged with one another; how they paid their unrelated peers no mind. I noticed how strangely self-aware I inversely became just by noticing these things, and I noticed the backwards kind of comfort I found within that sort of terrifying feeling.
At least once a week I am struck by the reality of this universe we live in. That we live on a giant rock spinning through space, and my day-to-day concerns are centered on whatever the made-up concept of "Illinois" is. We live within such small and simple regards to a universe that extends wider than our minds are equipped to handle. That said, we really do contain multitudes, if we are able to notice those things at all.
I understand the same as anyone that it often feels impossible to put down the phone. It's a tool designed to make our world more bearable, condensing our experience of it into something algorithmically sifted and easier to sit within. But the longer we live this way, the harder it becomes to fight our instincts: the ones we know are detrimental, but "cannot help."
Not everything you notice will make you uncomfortable. Some of it will. But isn't that discomfort what makes existence interesting? It's our gift to notice, to think, and to feel. Why waste it?
(For what it's worth, I did pull out my phone, once: to update my team on what I'd accomplished that day. It could have waited until later, but the threat of losing one's current thought to the aether is real enough to inspire a reasonable break of metaphorical immersion.)
