Stuart Franklin
Contributing Writer
I have long grappled with the grip that the internet has on our generation’s psyche. On one hand, we are privileged to have a lifetime’s worth of information at our fingertips. Information that can save lives, spark curiosity and propel social movements. On the other hand, I believe there is such a thing as information overload and tech billionaires want nothing more than for us to be incapacitated by the accompanying dread.
I know I’m not alone in feeling like I have lost too much of my life to mindless scrolling. I spent years avoiding TikTok, only for Meta to force-feed me its clone, “reels,” as an inescapable feature of Instagram. After falling down a reels rabbit hole, I would delete Instagram, only to waste time on YouTube or Google instead. Then, I’d miss my friends and redownload Instagram. The cycle repeats.
Lately, I’ve been romanticizing a time before smartphones: When people were okay with getting lost while driving, filled their days with spontaneous adventures or simply sat with boredom. Sometimes, it feels like the only way to reclaim my life, to quote Reneé Rapp, is to “throw my phone into a lake, and watch it sink to a better place down at the bottom.” Too bad I am not at a point in my life where that is a viable option.
Then I realized: There may never be a better time than the present.
I am a senior staring down the barrel of the working world and my life may never be this low-stakes again. So, the week before winter break, I decided to use my month off as an opportunity to embark on a “screen cleanse.” The rules were simple: I would not use any device with internet access except to a) check messages and email for 10 minutes daily; b) initiate in-person social gatherings; c) work on I.S.; or d) respond to emergencies.
The first week of my screen cleanse brought both expected challenges and unanticipated delights. I immediately missed Spotify. Luckily, my father is a music aficionado and a staunch believer in physical media. Our basement houses a record collection decades in the making and innumerable, dubiously acquired CDs. I learned to appreciate the experience of listening to albums cover-to-cover, the crackling static of vinyl and even the presence of silence when a device was out of reach. Most importantly, I bonded with my dad over something he deeply cares about.
That same week, I rediscovered my love of reading for pleasure. Dusting off my library card, I dove enthusiastically into books. In the process, I uncovered a long-dormant fascination with language. I found myself gripped by passages that perfectly described the indescribable. Inspired, I tried my hand at writing and spent weeks filling old notebooks with vignettes and literary musings.
My screen-free boredom spawned countless other endeavors: I hosted a Hanukkah party, practiced cooking intuitively, reconnected with old friends and embarked on a 20-mile bike ride with my brother in freezing temperatures. Most of all, I felt more present for my family than ever.
That said, the joy and connection I experienced were punctuated by moments of loneliness. I missed my friends. Since few of them live in my city, going offline meant cutting lines of communication with most of them. In a world where correspondence has largely moved online, stepping away requires prioritizing immediate relationships over long-distance ones. While I cherish the connections I strengthened, maintaining this level of analogue living would be unsustainable for the many other relationships in my life.