Shutting Down Technology for 24 Hours

Have you ever tried to shut down for just 24 hours? No technology whatsoever? No phone. No internet. Just quietude? Or what about just Social Media? Staying away from Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and the myriad other places you might frequent. How did it make you feel? I want to try to go at least one day without checking into my accounts, just one day of not going onto Messenger. Just one day of not checking book sales.

As I sat down to write this, and opened my computer, the screen saver was a universe of blue and purple and teal and bright and light stars. Beautiful really. Like a Van Gogh painting of space. But the longer I sat behind my laptop, the more I saw myself blending into it. The longer I stared, the more I could see myself in its reflection, just a shadow, and the stars became blurred and universe, so pretty when I opened it, faded into the background as I became more prominent in the picture. It was the exact reverse of when I first opened my computer and stared at the screensaver image, full of color and wonder, now it was just me, faceless, a black outline. Sounds like a bad acid trip, doesn’t it? But I’m afraid, it’s who we’re all becoming, extensions of technology. The very first thing I do when I wake in the morning is search for my phone. It lights up in my face like someone with a flashlight, and I draw my legs into a comfortable position, tucking myself on my side, and lounge and search and drift and write, perfectly content to lazily stretch and roll about, making my already messy sheets messier. It relaxes me. It’s much like the days of old, reading a newspaper slowly, pouring coffee, and then sipping it alongside the Arts and Entertainment section. Though I still do that on Sundays (less and less it seems), this is similar. I open my news apps first, then I surf Pinterest, get caught up on some blogs, and then begin the Social Media frenzy. No coffee, just me, my bed, and my pal, my phone.
The mere thought of not waking to my phone produces a bit of panic and anxiety in me. Usually waiting for me under my pillow, my hands search blindly for the rectangular handheld gold, and when it’s not there, I feel my heartbeat rise, my eyes pop open, my feet already on the cold floor, searching desperately like the most important part of me has bee stolen, before I realize it’s on the nightstand. And then, I can climb back in, roll about in the wee hours of morning, like a lazy semi-conscious slumber: calm, languid, as long as I can scroll my phone and hold it close like a teddy bear. Its soothing...And it’s dangerous.
Because as much as I tell myself it’s bad and I must put it down and I must shut it off and that the time is getting away from me, and I’ll be throwing my hair into another messy bun because I’m late, I’m finding it harder and harder to stop it. And even as I’m telling myself I need to put it down, I can’t. It’s addiction, I’m afraid. Plain and simple.

So, next week, I’m going to give it a go. Shut down for at least 24 hours. Like anything else in life, baby steps. I’ll try just one day. But with any addiction, it takes more than one day, and perhaps, that is why I know I can do it. Because I’ll be back, right there with my favorite blanket to comfort me. Will anyone notice? Or miss me? Highly doubtful. And that is the saddest part of addiction. The addiction doesn't need you. It will find its next victim. But you? You'll go into serious withdrawals, because you need IT, and if you don't? Perhaps you don't. Need. It. At. All... ​​​ I’m becoming 
the screen, 
the glare 
all I see—
mesmerizing 
addictive 
vapid—
a black hole
of light,
swirling 
with impermanent 
nothingness. 

I fade 
Into the background 
of its rectangle. 
Everything blurs.
Everything’s lukewarm. 
Everything’s grey.

I’m bored to tears, 
the plop
of them,
hard 
and heavy,
echoing 
in my ears 
of sleep 
and wake,
my thumb,
my brain, 
the click click
tap tap
of another
digital number
turning its red face. 

And I 
am a constant 
blue.

​R.B. O'Brien Author