I logged off

I logged off.

Not completely, but enough to listen to the waves and watch the people coming and going. I sent a few texts, then fewer, then none. I posted some pictures and checked the baseball scores. I watched a game once, on the sand, because we carry machines that can do that in our pockets.

But mostly, I logged off.

I read a book from cover to cover, then started another. I drank pina coladas and spicy pears. I watched a school of dolphins make their way down the coastline, their rhythm a silent song for the mesmerized among us. I dodged seagulls and looked for pelicans and wondered where they all went at night. I saw children building sand castles and old men fighting rip currents and mothers who seemed to be relaxing for the first time in ages. I talked a little and listened a lot and I made new friends. I walked the boardwalk and ate various versions of seafood and watched some music and listened to more. 

But I felt no need to pick up the phone, because I had nearly logged off.

Oh sure, that online machine was always in my bag or pocket. We've become enslaved to devices, chained and bird brained. Our minds have been rewired to crave the scrolling, even if it makes us angry or sad or frustrated or violent. But that tether was long, oh so long, and the craving was largely gone.

 

I've left the beach, reality has returned, and I've logged back on, because that's the modern world. Our lives revolve around our lap devices and our pocket machines, whether by choice or not. I've seen the news and read the buzz and even managed to do some work.

But all I want to do is log off.