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When I was a child, I consumed books until my vision blurred. When my exams arrived, I exercised the stamina of a monk, revising for lengthy periods without a break. But in lately, I’ve watched that capacity for deep focus dissolve into endless scrolling on my device. My attention span now shrinks like a slug at the touch of a finger. Reading for enjoyment seems less like nourishment and more like a marathon. And for a person who writes for a living, this is a professional hazard as well as something that left me disheartened. I aimed to restore that cognitive flexibility, to halt the brain rot.

Therefore, about a twelve months back, I made a modest vow: every time I came across a term I didn’t know – whether in a book, an article, or an overheard conversation – I would research it and record it. Nothing fancy, no leather-bound journal or stylish pen. Just a running list maintained, amusingly, on my phone. Each week, I’d devote a few moments reading the collection back in an attempt to imprint the word into my recall.

The record now covers almost twenty sheets, and this tiny ritual has been quietly life-changing. The payoff is less about showing off with obscure descriptors – which, to be honest, can make you appear insufferable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the practice. Each time I search for and note a term, I feel a slight expansion, as though some underused part of my mind is flexing again. Even if I never deploy “phantom” in conversation, the very process of spotting, documenting and revising it breaks the drift into passive, superficial focus.

There is also a journalling aspect to it – it acts as something of a journal, 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 easy habit to keep up. It is frequently very impractical. If I’m engaged on the subway, I have to stop mid-paragraph, take out my phone and enter “millennialism” into my digital document while trying not to elbow the stranger pressed against me. It can slow my reading to a frustrating crawl. (The Kindle, with its integrated dictionary, is much kinder). And then there’s the revising (which I often forget to do), conscientiously browsing through my growing word-hoard like I’m studying for a word test.

In practice, I integrate maybe 5% of these terms into my daily speech. “unreformable” made the cut. “Lugubrious” as well. But the majority of them remain like exhibits – appreciated and listed but rarely handled.

Still, it’s made my thinking much keener. I find myself turning less often for the same tired selection of adjectives, and more frequently for something precise and strong. Rarely are more gratifying than unearthing the exact term you were seeking – like finding the lost puzzle piece that locks the picture into position.

In an era when our devices siphon off our attention with relentless efficiency, it feels rebellious to use mine as a instrument for slow thought. And it has given me back something I feared I’d forfeited – the pleasure of exercising a intellect that, after a long time of lazy scrolling, is at last waking up again.