dissolution of the linear mind
...
the dissolution of the linear mind
is something I’m struggling to get
a handle on…
I see it in my actions,
I experience it when I read,
I feel it in the whimsical and chaotic
tumble of my verse…
even my stories are jagged, staccato…
I curse the struggle to pay attention,
the difficulty I have leaving my phone
locked in the corner for more than an hour
I don’t want to bounce around all day,
to blip and bobble between screens and scenes,
jumping in and out of competing streams…
I’m finding it hard to listen to people
in the chaotic mess that discourse now affords us
the internet, this seductive flow of media,
has destroyed my brain, fuck!
I thought I could delete facebook and stay
away from instagram, and I’d be somewhat immune
but you get it everywhere — at home, at work,
outside in the park, people chasing virtual pokemon,
in the malls, zombies holding hands with other zombies…
every fragment of this dry world is filled with magical
content that wreaks havoc on the nervous system…
we’re never alone, and we’re so alone
utterly alienated from an inner tranquility
that I used to find holy…
my brain is a shitstorm, in a constant state of flux
and my body… my god, my body
no longer recognizes itself as real
Garbage Notes:
In last week’s post I talked about how difficult it feels lately to focus. How hard it is to simply pay attention. This poem delves a little deeper into the struggle itself. The nature of the distraction. The feeling of the mind being torn in a millions different directions.
Even simple tasks like reading don’t feel linear anymore. I recently started using a Kindle, for example. I love it. It’s so convenient in so many ways. And while the joy of being able to press my finger to a word and be magically taken to its dictionary or encyclopedia entry is enlightening, it so easily devolves into a cascade of errant mental wandering and info-surfing.
I find myself watching an engrossing TV show and then I’m confronted with an ad, which then enables me to click a link that then sends more information about that product to my phone. And before you know it I’m fucking shopping.
I’m listening to music on my laptop, but being able to change the song with my phone means I keep the phone near me, in my lap—but then I can’t ignore the vibration, the incessant urge to reply to whoever texts me, right then and there. And before you know it, I have no awareness of what song I was even listening to.
These are just a few mundane examples of basic activities—reading, watching TV, listening to music—where the experience is no longer about just doing the thing. All the extra control and freedoms and luxuries we think are enhancing the experience actually result in our free time no longer being about the enjoyment of the actual thing itself.
I mean, I know there’s ways you can consciously limit distractions. I can block notifications. I put all my shit on do not disturb. I can unplug the fucking wifi router while I read or write. There’s things I can do. And yet I still don’t do them. There’s a sick part of me that doesn’t want to silence the storm—that’s incapable of disconnecting. And that’s what scares me the most.
I think a really frightening part of this poem is the line: “we’re never alone, and yet we’re so alone”. Because in the comforting ubiquity of constant connection, there is a deep alienation, an emotionally draining negation of will, a disconnectedness from something deep inside ourselves. That part of you that is okay with just existing.
The peaceful wholeness of body and mind is slipping away from us. And I don’t have an encouraging way to end this piece except to say that acknowledgment of this fact seems to be at least part of our only hope. Write about it. Talk about it. Reflect on it. Maybe focusing on the lack of focus is one small step that can turn the whole thing around.
Franco Amati 2026
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I think the thing that makes it worse is that those notifications are designed to be addictive – so desire to switch them off dwindles. Mine are all switched off, but then still I worry that someone won’t be able to get hold of me. I don’t remember ever worrying about that before mobile phones – I went off for days and never gave it a second thought, I miss that time that went undocumented.
Your words resonate so deeply—they capture the scattered, restless feeling of modern life with such clarity. But I also want to say: it doesn’t always have to end in alienation. I feel the same tug toward distraction, the itch for another hit of noise or novelty, but I’ve found some hope in leaning into presence, even for a few moments at a time. When I catch myself reaching for my phone or drifting out of a conversation, I try to pause and notice what’s actually happening. Sometimes just that act—turning my attention back to my breath, or the feel of where I’m sitting—can be enough to remind me that I’m still here, and there’s still a choice. It’s not about perfect focus or always getting it right, but about noticing when things start to feel more draining than nourishing, and gently letting go. I’ve started to treat that urge to “check out” as a kind of signal—a prompt to get curious, to ask what I’m avoiding or needing in that moment. The pull is still there, but being aware of it has become a practice in itself, one that (slowly) builds more presence and peace.Thank you for writing so honestly about this. I think that naming the struggle is part of the way through it, and your post is a reminder that we’re not alone in wrestling with the noise.