The penchant to capture every instant of beauty on my iPhone becomes a way of losing the world. Rather than living with me in my visceral memory, all the joy and beauty I experience ends up buried in a photos folder I rarely look at. The result is a diminished experience of both present and past. When I’m bent on capturing the moment in a snapshot, I am less present to the present; I’m fixated on a future memory—which ends up being a sad substitute for an emotion or vision I can carry in the caverns of my soul.
