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👀 You used to call me on my cell phone
#265 | I got the whole world in my hands
I have a confession to make: I'm writing this on my phone.
In fact, I write many -if not most- of my JOTs on my phone. Ideas flow better when I'm tightly embracing a device with my two hands, furiously typing away with my thumbs.
Many people, especially writer types, regard writing on one's phone as a lesser form of writing. The stuff you write on your phone isn't what you show people when you want to be taken seriously.
But I beg to differ. Scratch that; I insist on differing.
In the 21st, phones aren't just a means to an end (or a million ends). They're intimate, intuitive metallic companions that contain the secrets of the universes swirling within us. Ancient deities had consorts; we have mobile phones.
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It's not quite healthy to think of something you're constantly holding in your hands as Bad with a Capital B. So let's not.
Yes, our relationship with our phones can be toxic and addictive, but our phones are also gateways to some of the brightest experiences that infuse meaning into our cosmically insignificant lives.
During the pandemic, living thousands of miles away from home, it was with my phone that I saw my grandmother's face every morning; showed my friends the strawberry pancakes I made for almost every solo meal; researched hotline numbers when relatives started showing those dreaded symptoms; continued learning when my Master's programme moved to online mode.
I don't think anyone knew just how deep the roots would run - emotionally, creatively, intellectually and philosophically - when phones first came into use.
If you feel like a walk down memory lane, visit the Mobile Phone Museum on your phone (or your laptop). It's a crowd-sourced collection of unique mobile phone models going back all the way to the 1980s.
If you happen to have one of your old phones, you could even donate it to the museum (or hold on to it long enough for it to become an expensive historical artefact - but the world will probably end by then.
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