Adrift in the Endless Scroll – Till a Simple Practice Renewed My Love for Books

As a youngster, I devoured novels until my vision grew hazy. Once my exams arrived, I demonstrated the stamina of a monk, revising for lengthy periods without pause. But in lately, I’ve watched that ability for intense focus fade into infinite scrolling on my device. My attention span now shrinks like a slug at the touch of a thumb. Reading for enjoyment feels less like nourishment and more like a marathon. And for someone who writes for a living, this is a occupational risk as well as something that made me sad. I aimed to regain that cognitive flexibility, to halt the brain rot.

So, about a year ago, I made a small promise: every time I came across a term I didn’t understand – whether in a book, an piece, or an casual conversation – I would look it up and record it. Not a thing elaborate, no leather-bound journal or stylish pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, ironically, on my phone. Each seven days, I’d spend a few minutes reviewing the collection back in an effort to imprint the word into my memory.

The list now spans almost twenty sheets, and this small habit has been subtly transformative. The benefit is less about peacocking with uncommon descriptors – which, let’s face it, can make you appear insufferable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the ritual. Each time I look up and note a word, I feel a slight expansion, as though some neglected part of my mind is flexing again. Even if I never use “eidolon” in conversation, the very process of spotting, logging and reviewing it interrupts the slide into inactive, semi-skimmed focus.

There is also a diary-keeping aspect to it – it acts as something of a diary, a record of where I’ve been reading, what I’ve been pondering and who I’ve been hearing.

It's not as if it’s an simple habit to maintain. It is frequently very inconvenient. If I’m engaged on the subway, I have to stop in the middle, take out my device and type “millenarianism” into my digital document while trying not to bump the stranger pressed against me. It can reduce my reading to a frustrating speed. (The e-reader, with its integrated dictionary, is much kinder). And then there’s the reviewing (which I frequently neglect to do), conscientiously scrolling through my expanding word-hoard like I’m studying for a word test.

Realistically, I incorporate perhaps 5% of these terms into my daily speech. “unreformable” was adopted. “mournful” as well. But most of them remain like exhibits – appreciated and listed but seldom used.

Nevertheless, it’s made my mind much keener. I notice I'm reaching less frequently for the same tired selection of descriptors, and more frequently for something precise and muscular. Few things are more satisfying than unearthing the perfect word you were seeking – like finding the missing puzzle piece that snaps the picture into position.

At a time when our devices siphon off our attention with merciless efficiency, it feels subversive to use mine as a tool for deliberate thought. And it has given me back something I worried I’d forfeited – the pleasure of exercising a mind that, after years of lazy scrolling, is at last waking up again.