Beyond the glow of the screen - on attention, silence, and human presence

Sometimes I wonder when exactly we began to fear the empty spaces in our own lives. Not the great emptiness that comes with separation, loss, or unfulfilled dreams, but those small intervals we once barely noticed: a few minutes before waking, the journey home, the anticipation of someone's arrival, the afternoon light falling across a table, the silence between two thoughts. Today, it seems that every such pause creates a need within us to fill it. Almost unconsciously, our hand reaches for the phone, the screen lights up, and a foreign world enters our consciousness before we have even had the opportunity to meet our own. The day begins not with the feeling of returning to life, but with checking what is happening somewhere else. News, messages, images, other people's anxieties, achievements, and opinions - everything enters through a small illuminated surface while our own thoughts are still somewhere in the half-dreaming space of the night.

I could not describe this transformation as nothing but a loss. Technology has brought possibilities into our lives that would have seemed almost unimaginable just a few decades ago. Today, we can speak with someone on the other side of the world, access knowledge that once required years of searching, and create, translate, learn, explore, and share through tools that extend human capabilities. Artificial intelligence opens another door within this transformation: the possibility of communicating with a system that responds to our questions, helps us organise our thoughts, and offers images, texts, and solutions. There is no reason to deny the benefits or turn the past into a lost paradise. But perhaps precisely when a new possibility becomes part of almost every moment, we must learn to ask quieter and deeper questions: what happens to a human being when convenience gradually begins to determine the way they exist within their own life?

The screen has long ceased to be merely a window onto the world. It has become an environment in which our attention is invited, retained, and redirected again and again. We enter an application to check a single message and find ourselves surrounded by dozens of images, short videos, headlines, advertisements, and opinions that have almost nothing to do with our original intention. Time passes unnoticed. One piece of content gives way to another, curiosity awakens, then fades, only to search for something new again. Sometimes we do not even enjoy what we are watching. We continue simply because we have already begun, because the next thing might be more interesting, because there is always the possibility that we might miss something. And so our attention becomes a traveller without a chosen destination.

From a psychoanalytic perspective, such behaviour can be understood not only as a habit but also as a possible expression of inner tension. Sometimes, beneath the constant search for new content, there is a desire to avoid being alone with what already exists within us. Unexpressed sadness, anxiety about the future, feelings of inadequacy, loneliness, or an undefined sense of expectation can make silence difficult to tolerate. The external stream offers temporary relief. It does not require us to understand our feelings or confront the questions we have postponed. All it takes is a movement of the finger across the screen, and the experience we have been avoiding moves away once more. Sometimes we are not looking so much for new information as for a brief escape from the encounter with ourselves.

Of course, not every prolonged use of a phone or computer indicates addiction, nor does every digital habit necessarily conceal a repressed conflict. Human behaviour is more complex than such generalisations suggest. One person may be looking for entertainment, another for communication, a third for professional information, while someone else may find in the digital world a temporary refuge from circumstances they cannot change. For a lonely person, an online conversation may sometimes be the only accessible experience of closeness during the day. For an exhausted mind, short videos may offer a way to step away briefly from the pressure of responsibilities. For someone who struggles with anxiety, constantly checking the news may create the illusion of control. The question is not how to condemn these needs, but how to recognise them. Behind a habit, there is often a need that deserves to be heard rather than automatically suppressed.

I think one of the strangest experiences of modern life is our gradual departure from the ability to do nothing. A few minutes of waiting can already seem excessively long when there is no phone nearby. A walk feels incomplete without music or a podcast, eating easily becomes a secondary activity while we watch something else, and the evening sometimes ends not with the body's natural relaxation but with one final immersion in other people's stories. Even when we are tired, we continue searching for stimulation. It is as though simply being present without having something to do has become something we must justify.

And perhaps it is precisely there, in those ordinary minutes, that one of the forgotten capacities of the human psyche can be found: the ability to remain with an experience without immediately trying to change it. In silence, memories we have set aside may begin to emerge. Sometimes we remember someone's voice, sometimes a word we swallowed instead of saying, or a decision we have not yet accepted. We may feel sadness without immediately knowing where it comes from. We may recognise anger that we have concealed behind an appearance of calm, or a longing we have not allowed ourselves to speak about. These are not necessarily dramatic discoveries. Sometimes inner truth appears very quietly, like a reflection on water that becomes visible only when the surface is no longer disturbed.

Psychoanalysis draws attention to what we do not always consciously recognise: unconscious desires, defence mechanisms, repressed feelings, and recurring patterns through which we attempt to maintain our inner equilibrium. From this perspective, constantly occupying ourselves with the external world can sometimes become a form of defence against our inner reality. As long as our attention is occupied, we do not have to listen to the anxiety waiting to be acknowledged. As long as we follow other people's lives, we can postpone the question of what we want from our own. As long as we absorb another portion of information, we do not have to remain with a single thought long enough to discover where it might lead us.

And yet, we should not turn every desire for distraction into a psychological problem. Sometimes a person is simply tired and needs a little lightness. Sometimes music, a film, or a brief conversation online brings genuine joy. The difficulty may begin when we lose the ability to recognise the difference between a conscious choice and an automatic reaction. Freedom does not mean never reaching for a screen. It means being able to recognise why we are doing it and whether we still have a choice.

Attention is closely connected to the way we experience the world. What we notice repeatedly gradually shapes our perception of reality. And whatever constantly remains outside our attention seems to lose some of its presence in our awareness. We can look at thousands of photographs of mountains, lakes, and oceans without noticing the tree outside our window, where the morning light changes its appearance every day. We can observe other people's happiness, travels, and achievements while our own small reasons for gratitude remain almost invisible. We can read dozens of opinions about an event without giving ourselves enough time to understand what we actually think about it. Seeing something does not necessarily mean experiencing it. Receiving information does not necessarily mean arriving at understanding.

For me, this distinction becomes particularly important when I think about deep human thought and creativity. An idea does not always appear fully formed. It may move for a long time beneath the surface of consciousness, connecting with memories, childhood impressions, conversations, books, or something seemingly insignificant that we encountered years ago. Sometimes we need to leave a thought unfinished, step away from it, and allow it to discover its own shape. It is precisely within this space of uncertainty that something personal may be born. Yet when every difficulty is quickly interrupted by a new stimulus, we gradually become accustomed to expecting immediate results. Patience begins to look like a waste of time, and effort like an unnecessary obstacle.

Deep attention requires continuity. It cannot always be summoned on demand. We need to remain with a book, a melody, a question, or another person's story without constantly interrupting our connection with it. The same applies to our inner lives. We cannot understand our own feelings if we replace them with new impressions every time they become uncomfortable. We cannot hear what has not yet found its words if we never allow it enough silence. The ability to think deeply requires a space in which thought is not constantly interrupted.

The emergence of artificial intelligence makes this question even more complex. We can now ask a machine to organise our ideas, write a text, suggest a solution, create an image, or explain a difficult subject. This can be valuable assistance. A tool can free up time, make knowledge more accessible, support someone who is learning independently, or provide the beginning of a creative process that might otherwise remain only a desire. But there is a boundary that deserves particular attention: the difference between assistance and substitution. It is one thing to use technology to develop our own idea; it is quite another to gradually hand over the very ability to decide what we think.

Effort matters in our psychological life. When a person tries to formulate something difficult, they are not simply searching for the right words. They are encountering the uncertainty of their own experience, discovering contradictions, recognising gaps, and reconsidering their original position. Something more than a finished result takes place in this process: understanding begins to take shape. If we always receive ready-made answers, we may save some effort, but we may also miss the inner movement through which knowledge becomes our own. The value of independent thought lies not only in the accuracy of the answer, but also in the journey through which we arrive at it.

I do not believe that artificial intelligence inevitably makes people passive. Everything depends on how we incorporate it into our lives. We can use its capabilities to learn, investigate, experiment, and expand our own creativity. But we can also gradually become accustomed to allowing something else to formulate our thoughts, make our choices, and determine the direction in which we should move. The same technology can support independence or become a means through which it gradually weakens. Our own position remains decisive. Are we participating consciously in the process, or are we simply accepting whatever is offered to us?

The question becomes particularly delicate when technology begins to occupy a place in our emotional lives. Some people communicate with artificial intelligence because they find it easier to express certain thoughts to a system that does not display impatience or react with visible judgement. The possibility of asking a question in the middle of the night, returning to a particular subject, or expressing something that would be difficult to share with someone close to us can bring temporary relief. I see no reason why such an experience should automatically be met with ridicule or shame. Writing, music, books, and other forms of communication can also help us organise what we carry within ourselves.

But we must remember the difference between a response that sounds compassionate and the reciprocity that emerges between two human beings. Genuine closeness involves more than words. It includes presence, independent feelings, bodily memory, shared time, responsibility, and the possibility that another person may be different from our expectations. Another person may not understand us immediately. They may struggle to find the right expression, remain silent, or disagree with us. Sometimes it is precisely this unpredictability that makes a relationship alive. Being understood by another human being is an experience that takes place between two separate consciousnesses, each with its own freedom, history, and vulnerability.

Perhaps this is why one of the contradictions of our time is that we have never had so many opportunities to communicate, and yet loneliness continues to occupy a place in the lives of so many people. We can reach someone within seconds, but that does not mean we will feel close to them. We can follow details of hundreds of people's lives without genuinely participating in the experience of even one of them. Visibility is not the same as being known. A reaction is not the same as empathy. Being constantly present in someone's digital space does not necessarily mean that we are part of their inner world.

Sometimes I wonder whether we are beginning to see ourselves through the eyes of an invisible audience. Before we have even experienced a moment, we are already imagining how it might look in a photograph, how it might be perceived, or whether it is worth sharing. Our inner experience may gradually become divided into two parts: what we actually live through and what we choose to show. There is not necessarily any deception in this distinction. Everyone has the right to a personal image and to choose what they reveal. But if we constantly evaluate our lives according to how presentable they are, we risk missing the experience itself. We can document beauty without allowing it to touch us. We can talk about our feelings without having dared to remain with them.

Here, the psychoanalytic question of the relationship between authentic experience and the image we construct for others appears once again. Each of us carries different faces: the one we show, the one we conceal, and the one we have not yet fully come to know. In digital spaces, these faces can be maintained with particular care. We receive reactions, compare ourselves with others, and wonder whether we are interesting enough, successful enough, attractive enough, or significant enough. In this way, external evaluation can gradually become an inner judge. We begin to observe ourselves as though our lives belong both to us and to someone we must constantly impress.

But a person also needs a space in which they do not have to present themselves. We need moments when we are not required to prove anything, appear a certain way, or explain the meaning of our existence. Perhaps part of inner freedom begins precisely there, when we allow ourselves to be imperfect and unfinished without immediately turning that into a problem to be solved. Not every experience needs to be displayed in order to be real. Not every moment of joy needs witnesses in order to have value.

Beyond psychology, I sense a deeper spiritual question. What happens to the human soul when the external world leaves almost no room for contemplation? For many people, silence is connected with prayer, gratitude, and the feeling that life possesses a dimension that cannot be reduced to what is visible and measurable. We do not need to withdraw from the world in order to touch this dimension. Sometimes it is enough to stop for a moment, look at the light falling across a wall, listen to the rain, or become aware of our own breathing. In such moments, the ordinary seems to become transparent to something greater.

Spirituality does not always arrive through extraordinary events. Sometimes it appears in the quietest gestures: preparing a meal with attention, gently stroking an animal, listening to someone without rushing to correct them, or remaining by the window as the morning gradually fills the room. In these moments, there is no need to search for a special experience. It is enough to be present. Perhaps this is one of the simplest forms of prayer: not running away from the life we have been given, but meeting it with attention.

Sometimes God is not felt as an answer, but as a silence in which the question can finally be asked. Not every prayer finds words, and not every expectation receives comfort quickly. Yet when a person stops being distracted for a moment, when they remain with their breathing and with what they carry in their heart, they may sense that not everything in life depends on their constant activity. Some processes require time. Some pain cannot be removed with a single gesture. Some truths reveal themselves only when we stop trying to force them into existence.

Our inner world does not disappear when we stop paying attention to it, but it may gradually become more difficult to read. It continues to speak through dreams, bodily sensations, recurring thoughts, unexpected memories, attractions, and resistances. Sometimes what we call exhaustion is accumulated emotional tension. Sometimes irritation conceals disappointment, while the constant desire to stay occupied protects us from a question we are not yet ready to answer. We do not need to search for hidden meaning in every action, but we can allow ourselves the curiosity to turn inward with greater patience.

We should also remember that responsibility does not belong solely to the individual. Work, communication, education, and many everyday activities now require an almost constant online presence. Digital platforms operate within an economic environment in which attention has value and retaining users is often a central objective. It is therefore unfair to blame people for lacking sufficient self-control without looking at the systems that shape their daily choices. Individuals have their own responsibility, but that responsibility exists within an environment that also bears responsibility for the ways in which it attracts and retains their attention.

Perhaps change does not need to begin with grand promises and strict prohibitions. It can begin with an ordinary morning when we do not reach for our phones immediately. With a meal during which we put the screen aside. With a short walk in which we hear the wind and our own footsteps. With a conversation in which we do not check notifications while the other person is speaking. With an evening in which we allow ourselves not to know everything that is happening everywhere. These small choices are not an escape from the modern world. They are a way of remaining part of it without becoming completely lost in its rhythm.

I do not believe that we must abandon technology in order to preserve what is human within us. Rather, we need to restore the boundaries that allow us to use it without surrendering all our attention, time, and inner freedom. To be able to search for information and then close the window. To use artificial intelligence without ceasing to think. To communicate online without forgetting the people who are physically beside us. To benefit from convenience without turning every discomfort into something that must be eliminated immediately.

More and more, I find myself thinking that freedom also includes the ability not to respond immediately. Not to open every message the moment it appears. Not to follow every piece of news. Not to allow someone else's mood to determine our own. To remain with a thought until it reaches its natural end. To acknowledge that sometimes we need not more information, but rest, sleep, human closeness, or a few minutes in which nobody expects anything from us.

Our lives are not an endless stream of content. They are made up of a finite number of mornings, conversations, touches, encounters, and quiet moments that will never happen in quite the same way again. Every morning spent rushing between notifications is part of our time. Every evening in which we have been everywhere else but present within ourselves also belongs to our lives. I do not say this to create guilt. Guilt rarely opens the way to change. Rather, I would like us to learn to recognise when we are moving away from ourselves and find a way back without harshness.

Perhaps the future will bring machines capable of performing tasks that we still consider uniquely human today. Artificial intelligence will probably enter even more areas of knowledge, work, and everyday life. We do not know exactly how far these changes will reach, but we can begin asking ourselves what we wish to preserve within us regardless of them. The ability to love, care, empathise, accept responsibility, contemplate, and search for meaning should not become secondary simply because technology can produce increasingly convincing results.

We do not need to compete with machines to know that human life has value. We do not need to reject what is new in order to defend our right to silence. We can remain curious about the future while protecting what connects us to the present moment. We can accept assistance without abandoning personal effort. We can learn from technology without giving it the right to determine who we are.

Sometimes I imagine a world without the constant noise of notifications, not a world without electricity, machines, or digital spaces, but one in which people once again have the right to their own inner rhythm. A world in which nobody is expected to be available every minute. A world in which not every thought needs to be published, not every moment of free time needs to be put to use, and not every silence needs to be filled. A world in which we can sit by the window, watch the light change, and not feel that we are missing something simply because, for a little while, we are not following anything else.

Perhaps it is then that we will remember that life does not happen only where there is movement, novelty, and response. It also happens in stillness, anticipation, imperfection, and unfinished thought. It happens in the breath we take when we finally relax. In a raindrop on the windowpane. In the voice of someone we have known for a long time. In a prayer that remains without words. In that quiet moment when we are no longer trying to become more interesting, more useful, or more noticeable, but simply allowing existence to be what it is.

The screen can take us to thousands of places, show us countless human stories, and open doors to knowledge that might otherwise remain inaccessible. But it cannot live on our behalf. It cannot feel the morning air for us, carry our sorrow, walk the path of our personal growth, or accept what life places before us in our name. It can help us find words, but the meaning of those words must pass through our own consciousness and experience.

And perhaps the quietest question of our time is precisely this: while creating increasingly intelligent tools, will we manage to remain attentive to our own souls? Will we be able to distinguish the voice of our inner needs amid the multitude of external messages? Will we preserve the ability to be alone without feeling abandoned, and to be with another person without becoming distracted from their presence?

I do not know whether I have a final answer. Perhaps I do not need one. For now, it seems enough to me to sometimes leave my phone in another room, open the window, and listen to the day beginning. Not to rush to name the feeling that arises. To allow it to remain. To accept that not every minute needs to be filled with information and that not every silence is empty.

For beyond the glow of the screen, another kind of light continues to exist - softer, more difficult to measure, yet close to what we call human presence. It appears when our attention returns to life, when thought is given time to unfold, when the heart stops comparing itself with others, and when, in silence, we can once again feel our own breathing. Perhaps we do not need to distance ourselves from the world in order to return to ourselves. Sometimes it is enough to stop moving away from every moment we have been given.