Most mornings start the same way for me: a hand stretching out of the blankets, not for the alarm clock, but for the phone glowing faithfully on the nightstand. It’s as if the day doesn’t really begin until I’ve scrolled through a dozen things I didn’t need to know, but somehow couldn’t wait to see. News, messages, a photo of someone’s breakfast in another time zone — it all blurs together, like dream fragments carried into the daylight.
And I wonder: is this the shape of our modern devotion? We bend over little glowing rectangles as though they’re altars — silent, private rituals performed at bus stops, cafés, even family dinner tables. I’ve seen people crossing streets with eyes glued to the screen, apparently treating traffic as just another optional notification. Bodies here, minds elsewhere.
Their eyes focused on the iPhone
hands typing vigorously
oblivious to their surroundings
They sat like zombies in the metro passivelyWith a white cable dangling from their ears
a weird noise blaring untimely
Their feet tapping to silent rhythm
they were lost in their gung-ho world frequently
- an excerpt from the poem Zombies, Jul 2013
I’d like to say I resist it, but truthfully, I don’t. Some evenings, I catch myself sitting across from friends, nodding absently while sneaking a glance at my screen. It’s rarely anything urgent—usually just a flashing heart icon or someone’s dog in a Halloween costume. And still, it pulls me in. The irony isn’t lost on me: all this connection, and yet how easily we drift from one another. Maybe we’re living in what could be called the golden age of connected disconnection.
Sometimes I try to make sense of it. Is it the dopamine rush of getting “likes”? The odd comfort of watching a cat in sunglasses play the ukulele? Or perhaps it’s the primitive urge to toss every fleeting thought into the void, hoping someone, somewhere, might toss back a response. Whatever it is, it’s universal. Toddlers swipe before they can speak, teenagers type faster than they talk, and grandparents now send 2 a.m. GIFs that make you question whether they’ve joined a secret meme society.
Romance hasn’t been spared either. I’ve been at dinners where the candlelight and wine were perfect, except my companion’s eyes were reflecting the glow of a phone screen. I remember laughing at a joke only to realize they weren’t laughing with me — they were giggling at a video of a raccoon stealing pizza. It wasn’t malicious, just quietly disappointing.
Parks are the same. You’ll see couples holding hands, but scrolling different feeds, each absorbed in their own private stream of images. At the gym, there’s always someone who spends more time setting up their camera than actually working out. And don’t get me started on “friends’ night out”—half the evening is spent debating filters, everyone crowding around to make sure no one looks like an uncooked yam. The rest of the conversation dissolves into polite murmurs, punctuated by the quiet glow of notifications.
And yet, I can’t bring myself to scold too harshly. Maybe it’s because I’m guilty of the same small betrayals. The phone buzzes, and I answer, as though I owe it something. I tell myself I’ll only check one thing, and then twenty minutes vanish. These aren’t catastrophic failures of willpower—just tiny surrenders, small leaks in the vessel of our attention.
Still, I wonder about the cost. When I choose the glowing screen over the face in front of me, what am I trading away? It’s not just about missing a story or a smile — it’s about missing the chance to be fully present in the ordinary, unrepeatable moment. And those moments, strung together, are what a life is made of.
Of course, I don’t mean to paint it all in shades of loss. There’s joy too—messages from faraway family, photos that make me laugh out loud, even the occasional late - night conversation that feels like a lifeline. But I think about the balance. About whether I’m logging into life, or quietly logging out of it.
The truth is, the phone isn’t going anywhere. Neither is my need for connection. The real choice lies in how I use it—whether it becomes a bridge or a wall. Maybe tomorrow morning, before reaching for the glowing rectangle, I’ll start with a stretch, a glass of water, maybe even a look out the window. Nothing heroic, just a small attempt to meet the day before meeting the screen.
Because life, I suspect, is still happening — quietly, insistently — just beyond the edges of that little rectangle.
So maybe the question isn’t “are we connected?” but — when we pick up our phones — are we logging into life .. or logging out of it?
I wake up in the morning and go tap tap tap tap
updating my status on Twitter, Facebook and Tumblr
Announcing to the world my quibbles, my fuss, my dripping sapI sip my coffee and brush my teeth
While quickly sneaking in between an update indeed
- an excerpt from the poem Tap Tap Tap, Aug 2012