for the Disconnected Self

I did not know when it began—
the fraying,
the silence behind the noise,
the light behind the screen that mimicked the sun
so perfectly I forgot how dawn smells.

No funeral marked the moment I lost myself,
no eulogy read as I dissolved into
scrolls, swipes, pings, alerts—
digital rosaries I clutched
more tightly than prayer.
I was always reachable,
but never really touched.
I answered everyone,
but forgot how to speak to myself.

It came slowly,
like all things that kill gently—
not with a scream,
but with the steady drip of attention
leaking from my skull
as I clicked through curated grief,
borrowed joy,
manufactured rage.

I did not notice when my breath shortened,
when my jaw learned to clench in its sleep,
when the birdsong outside my window
stopped mattering.

I did not know how long I'd been grieving
my own presence
until a child I love
tugged my sleeve
and asked me to look up—
just to see a butterfly.

And I didn’t.
Not in time.

So I knew it was time.

Not because an app told me so,
not because a detox calendar blinked
with the right shade of guilt.
But because I missed my own pulse.
I missed the sensation
of living without performance.
I missed being bored.
I missed being enough.


---

So I planned a burial.

I laid the phone gently on the table
as though it were a body.
Cold, light, buzzing faintly,
still calling me to return—
but I didn’t.

I gathered my mourning clothes:
old cotton pajamas,
wool socks,
a sweater that smelled of cedar.
I unrolled silence
like a carpet.
I opened the window.
I let the breeze carry
the carbon of my fatigue
into the trees.

I unplugged everything.
Even the lamp,
even the ticking clock.
I let the room be dusk.
I sat,
then I lay down.
Not to scroll.
Not to research sleep.
Just to feel the ache
that comes when a body finally stops
pretending it isn’t tired.

I dreamt in analogue.


---

The next day,
I wrote with a pen.
The ink bled a little,
as if my words had been
locked away too long.
I didn’t write a to-do list.
I wrote a remembrance.

A poem for the hours I lost
to infinite feeds.
A letter to the friends I forgot to call
while liking their vacation photos.
A note to myself:
You are not a signal.
You are not a brand.
You are not a battery.

I walked barefoot on soil
that did not ask for engagement.
The ants did not care about my content.
The clouds passed
without commentary.

The ache returned—
not in my thumbs this time,
but in my throat.
I wept for the time I’d abandoned
the part of me that reads books slowly,
forgets to answer emails,
sits with sadness
without needing to post about it.


---

This elegy is for the self
who disappeared between notifications—
the self who once danced in the kitchen
without pressing record,
who watched films
without needing to rate them,
who used to call storms "gifts"
instead of "inconveniences."

This is for the girl
who once wrote letters by hand
and sealed them with the scent of marigolds.
This is for the boy
who could walk for hours
without the itch to prove he was somewhere.
This is for the old woman I hope to become,
who will laugh at the idea
that presence had to be fought for.


---

But elegies are not just for the dead.

They are also a way to say: I remember you.
I will return to you.
You are not lost.

So I marked the first day I came back.
Not to the feed.
But to myself.

The return was quiet.
No announcement.
Just breakfast eaten
without interruption.
Just a cup of tea held warm
between both hands.

I lit a candle—not for mood,
not for a post.
Just because the flame
reminded me of my breath—
unseen, but essential.


---

And now, when I forget again
(as I always will),
I remember this elegy.
I return to the rituals:

I unplug.

I walk.

I sleep.

I write without sharing.

I listen to wind.

I speak only when I mean it.

I pause.

I say no.

I say: “I’m going offline for a while.”


No one dies when I do.
The world spins fine.
Better, even.
Because I’ve made space again
for the sacred art
of doing nothing.


---

So here lies the version of me
that forgot how to rest.
I loved her.
She tried.
But she is no longer in charge.

Here rises the self who
knows how to leave
before breaking.
Who doesn’t wait for burnout
to light a fire.
Who can say: “Enough.”
And mean it.


---

Rest in peace,
Disconnected Self.
You taught me what to bury.
Now I live lighter.
Now I live.

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