Love Letter to My Phone: On Absence
Dear Phone,
Remember when we first met? You arrived in a pristine white box, promising connection, convenience, a world at my fingertips. For a while, it was indeed magical. You showed me stars in foreign skies, let me whisper goodnight to loved ones across oceans, captured moments I thought I'd never want to forget.
But lately, I've been watching how you've colonized the quiet corners of my life – those precious spaces between moments where thoughts once roamed free. You're like that friend who never learned the art of comfortable silence, always certain that whatever's happening elsewhere must be more important than here, now.
I've caught myself reaching for you in those tender morning hours when the light is still gentle, before the day has found its voice. Not because I need you, but because you've trained me to need you. Like a fisherman checking empty nets, I pull down to refresh, hoping to catch something meaningful in the endless stream of updates.
The Space Between
What I'm really seeking, I think, isn't in your screen at all. It's in those moments when you're face-down on my desk and I suddenly notice the way sunlight plays on my coffee cup. It's in the thoughts that bubble up during my morning walk when you're left at home. It's in the conversations that unfold when friends gather and you sleep quietly in our pockets.
This isn't a breakup letter – we both know our lives are too entangled for that. Instead, think of it as conscious uncoupling, a thoughtful redrawing of boundaries. I'm learning that distance can be a form of love, that the spaces between things are where life actually happens.
A New Agreement
So here's what I propose:
- You'll stay out of my morning rituals, those sacred first hours when the world is still soft
- We'll take breaks from each other, like friends who understand that absence makes the heart grow fonder
- You'll wait patiently while I rediscover the art of getting lost in a book, a conversation, or simply my own thoughts
In return, I promise to be more present when we do connect. To use you with intention rather than habit. To remember that you're a tool for living, not life itself.
Perhaps then we can find what we both really want: not constant connection, but meaningful presence. Not endless information, but deeper wisdom. Not the illusion of everywhere, but the reality of here.
With gentle boundaries and growing wisdom,
Henrik - The First Loafer
The art of living isn't in staying connected, but in knowing when to disconnect. Sometimes the most revolutionary act is simply putting down your phone and watching the clouds drift by.