I keep finding myself doomscrolling, getting inspirations from the wrong places, and motivated for the wrong reasons. I know that my phone is my personal demon, and I choose to get soaked by it every time I pick it up.

I feel gray and dull, my curiosity is dusted, and my thinking is an imitation of something I’ve seen gone viral on Twitter.

I’m not romanticizing boredom as much as I’m attempting to chase clarity through it. Being sunk in the constant gibberish noise won’t help you listen yourself, nor will help you create the space for your own thinking.

I want to be bored, I want to stare at white walls, I want to lubricate squeaky doors, I want to pay a close attention to a random tiny creature I find at the doorstep.

I want the ability to stay put and write more, to be more tolerable toward blank canvases and blinking cursors.

I want to dismiss news on AI, economy analytics, viral memes, shitposting, and the constant heavy battle for attention on the web.

I want the slow internet, the obscure blog that talks about making ardiunio managing a herb garden, the sound designer who extracts sound patterns from a leaf, and bookworm who read a novel about the lost milk bottle.

I want to pay attention to the invisible, and touch the vulnerable.