Lost in the Endless Scroll – Until a Small Ritual Renewed My Passion for Books

As a youngster, I consumed books until my vision blurred. Once my exams arrived, I exercised the stamina of a ascetic, studying for hours without pause. But in lately, I’ve observed that ability for intense focus fade into endless browsing on my device. My attention span now contracts like a slug at the touch of a finger. Engaging with books for pleasure feels less like nourishment and more like a marathon. And for someone who creates content for a living, this is a occupational risk as well as something that made me sad. I aimed to regain that cognitive flexibility, to stop the mental decline.

Therefore, about a twelve months back, I made a modest vow: every time I came across a word I didn’t know – whether in a book, an article, or an overheard discussion – I would research it and record it. Nothing elaborate, no leather-bound journal or fountain pen. Just a ongoing record kept, ironically, on my phone. Each seven days, I’d spend a few moments reviewing the list back in an effort to imprint the word into my recall.

The record now spans almost 20 pages, and this small habit has been subtly life-changing. The benefit is less about peacocking with obscure descriptors – which, to be honest, can make you appear unbearable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the ritual. Each time I search for and note a word, I feel a faint expansion, as though some neglected part of my brain is flexing again. Even if I never deploy “eidolon” in dialogue, the very act of spotting, logging and reviewing it interrupts the slide into passive, superficial focus.

There is also a journalling element to it – it functions as something of a journal, a log of where I’ve been engaging, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been hearing.

It's not as if it’s an simple habit to maintain. It is often very impractical. If I’m engaged on the subway, I have to stop in the middle, pull out my phone and enter “millenarianism” into my digital document while trying not to elbow the person pressed against me. It can reduce my pace to a maddening speed. (The e-reader, with its integrated dictionary, is much easier). And then there’s the reviewing (which I often neglect to do), dutifully scrolling through my growing word-hoard like I’m preparing for a word test.

Realistically, I incorporate maybe five percent of these words into my daily speech. “Incorrigible” was adopted. “mournful” as well. But most of them stay like exhibits – admired and catalogued but seldom handled.

Nevertheless, it’s rendered my thinking much keener. I find myself turning less often for the same overused selection of adjectives, and more frequently for something precise and muscular. Rarely are more satisfying than unearthing the perfect word you were seeking – like locating the missing puzzle piece that locks the image into position.

At a time when our gadgets drain our focus with relentless efficiency, it feels subversive to use my own as a tool for deliberate thought. And it has restored to me something I worried I’d lost – the pleasure of exercising a intellect that, after a long time of lazy scrolling, is at last stirring again.