The Lost Art of Remembering, Waiting, and Being Bored
Not so long ago, there was a time when our brains were the original smartphones (mine was! Even if I sound pompous!). We actually memorized phone numbers. Initially five, then six and ultimately seven digits lived rent-free in our heads, grouped by rhythm, not contact names. My best friend’s number, the tuition teacher’s landline, even the numbers of extended family members remained perfectly stored in the dusty archives of memory. Today, ask someone their own number and watch them fumble like a contestant on a game show. We have outsourced memory to devices that sometimes forget to charge themselves. Letters, too, had their own poetry. They began with “Dearest” and ended with “Yours lovingly,” travelling across cities and states to deliver a piece of our hearts. Every ink blot, every smudge, had a story to narrate. Now we send voice notes that begin with “Umm… can you hear me?” and which ultimately turn into masterpieces of hesitation and background noise. Romance used to arrive ...
