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As a child, I consumed novels until my vision blurred. When my GCSEs came around, I exercised the stamina of a monk, studying for hours without a break. But in lately, I’ve watched that ability for intense focus dissolve into infinite browsing on my device. My focus now contracts like a slug at the touch of a thumb. 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 professional hazard as well as something that left me disheartened. I aimed to restore that mental elasticity, to halt the brain rot.

So, about a year ago, I made a small promise: every time I encountered a term I didn’t know – whether in a novel, an article, or an casual discussion – I would look it up and record it. Not a thing fancy, no leather-bound journal or fountain pen. Just a running list maintained, ironically, on my smartphone. Each seven days, I’d devote a few moments reviewing the list back in an attempt to imprint the word into my memory.

The list now spans almost 20 pages, and this small habit has been subtly life-changing. The benefit is less about showing off with obscure adjectives – which, to be honest, can make you sound insufferable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the ritual. Each time I search for and record a term, I feel a slight expansion, as though some neglected part of my mind is flexing again. Even if I never deploy “eidolon” in conversation, the very act of spotting, documenting and revising it interrupts the slide into passive, semi-skimmed focus.

Additionally, there's a journalling aspect to it – it acts as something of a diary, a log of where I’ve been engaging, what I’ve been pondering and who I’ve been hearing.

It's not as if it’s an simple routine to keep up. It is often very inconvenient. If I’m reading on the subway, I have to stop in the middle, take out my phone and type “millennialism” into my Google doc while trying not to bump the stranger pressed against me. It can slow my reading to a maddening crawl. (The e-reader, with its built-in dictionary, is much kinder). And then there’s the reviewing (which I frequently neglect to do), conscientiously scrolling through my expanding vocabulary collection like I’m preparing for a word test.

Realistically, I incorporate maybe 5% of these terms into my everyday speech. “unreformable” was adopted. “mournful” as well. But the majority of them remain like exhibits – appreciated and catalogued but seldom handled.

Nevertheless, it’s rendered my thinking much keener. I find myself reaching less frequently for the same overused selection of adjectives, and more frequently for something exact and strong. Few things are more satisfying than unearthing the exact word you were seeking – like locating the lost component that snaps the picture into position.

At a time when our devices drain our attention with relentless effectiveness, it feels subversive to use mine as a instrument for deliberate thought. And it has restored to me something I feared I’d lost – the pleasure of engaging a mind that, after a long time of slack browsing, is finally stirring again.