How comfortable are we with sitting in complete silence, doing absolutely nothing? No music in the background, no television running for emotional support, no phone within arm's reach, and certainly no urgent need to check whether someone has liked a photograph of our lunch.
As appealing as peace sounds, we seem almost terrified of being unoccupied. We need to be doing something, watching something or, at the very least, scrolling through something. God forbid we are left alone with our own minds. Who knows what might come up?
Our social gatherings have become rather interesting spectacles. Friends meet, order food, exchange pleasantries and then retreat into their phones, which sit on the table like a fifth guest who gets all the attention. Occasionally someone looks up to confirm other humans are present. A photograph is taken to prove we socialised, and everyone drifts back to their screens.
We have successfully managed to make being together look remarkably similar to being alone. So has socialising changed, or are we simply living under the illusion of being connected?
As a millennial, I have had the unusual privilege of watching technology unfold in front of me. I remember the enormous desktop computer, the modem screeching like a haunted fax machine, and the patience it took to wait for one page to load. It was practically a test of character. Today, if a website takes three seconds longer than expected, we behave as though we have been personally betrayed.
We moved from desktops to laptops, from basic phones to smartphones, and from remembering telephone numbers to letting a device remember everything for us. We once found our way using street signs and strangers. Now, without Google Maps, some of us would struggle to find the exit of a shopping mall.
I say this without judgement. Seeing a loved one thousands of miles away, in real time, is extraordinary, and nobody is keen to bring back the pigeons. But convenience has a side effect: we no longer know what to do without constant stimulation.
I still love the ritual of a physical book: holding it, turning the pages, absorbing the smell of paper. E-books are convenient, and audiobooks have their place. But somewhere along the line, I decided this was as far as I would take my personal evolution. Call me old-school, but I would like to keep a few pleasures that do not need a charger, a subscription or an update.
Time is currency, after all, though its value depends on who is spending it. (Even cryptocurrency has found its believers.) We are obsessed with saving time, yet what exactly are we doing with all the time we save? We are more reachable than ever, but being unavailable for five minutes has become a minor social emergency. We confuse access with intimacy, and activity with fulfilment.
And then there is the matter of being alone. We have blurred the lines between solitude and loneliness, as though time by ourselves must mean something is missing. Solitude, after all, is not loneliness wearing a more sophisticated outfit. It can be a choice, a pleasure, even a necessity: the space where we can hear ourselves think without the world constantly interrupting.
Which brings me to this moment: sitting alone with my coffee, watching my thoughts wander, and wondering whether everyone else is too busy documenting their coffee to actually taste it.
I am merely curious about when silence became so uncomfortable, when boredom became something to be treated with a screen, and when our own company became something to escape.
Perhaps the real luxury in a hyperconnected world is not having access to everyone, everywhere, at every hour. Perhaps it is sitting alone, in peace, with nothing demanding our attention, and discovering that we are perfectly comfortable with the person sitting across from us.
Even when that person is ourselves.
