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As a child, I devoured books until my vision grew hazy. Once my exams arrived, I demonstrated the stamina of a ascetic, studying for lengthy periods without a break. But in recent years, I’ve observed that capacity for deep focus fade into endless browsing on my device. My focus now shrinks like a snail at the tap of a thumb. Reading for enjoyment seems less like nourishment and more like a marathon. And for someone who creates content for a profession, this is a occupational risk as well as something that left me disheartened. I aimed to restore that mental elasticity, to halt the brain rot.

Therefore, about a year ago, I made a small promise: every time I encountered a term I didn’t know – whether in a novel, an piece, or an casual conversation – I would research it and write it down. Nothing fancy, no elegant notebook or stylish pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, amusingly, on my phone. Each seven days, I’d devote a few minutes reviewing the collection back in an attempt to imprint the vocabulary into my recall.

The list now covers almost 20 pages, and this tiny habit has been subtly life-changing. The benefit is less about showing off with obscure adjectives – which, let’s face it, can make you sound insufferable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the ritual. Each time I look up and record a term, I feel a faint stretch, as though some neglected part of my brain is stirring again. Even if I never use “eidolon” in conversation, the very act of spotting, documenting and reviewing it interrupts the drift into inactive, superficial attention.

There is also a journalling element to it – it functions as something of a journal, a log of where I’ve been reading, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been hearing.

It's not as if it’s an simple habit to keep up. It is often extremely inconvenient. If I’m engaged on the subway, I have to stop in the middle, pull out my device and enter “millenarianism” into my Google doc while trying not to elbow the stranger pressed against me. It can reduce my reading to a maddening speed. (The Kindle, with its integrated lexicon, is much easier). And then there’s the reviewing (which I often forget to do), dutifully browsing through my growing vocabulary collection like I’m studying for a vocabulary test.

Realistically, I integrate perhaps 5% of these words into my everyday conversation. “Incorrigible” was adopted. “Lugubrious” too. But most of them remain like exhibits – appreciated and catalogued but rarely handled.

Still, it’s rendered my thinking much sharper. I notice I'm reaching less often for the same overused selection of descriptors, and more often for something precise and strong. Rarely are more satisfying than unearthing the exact word you were searching for – like finding the lost puzzle piece that locks the picture into position.

At a time when our devices siphon off our attention with relentless effectiveness, it feels rebellious to use mine as a instrument for deliberate thought. And it has given me back something I feared I’d forfeited – the pleasure of exercising a intellect that, after years of lazy scrolling, is finally stirring again.