Dom’s blog

  I stood in an elevator the other day with four strangers. Each of us took a corner. No one spoke. No one made eye contact. It was like we were ghosts pretending not to exist. Why do we do that? There are rules no one teaches, but we all obey. Like not sitting right next to someone in an empty theater. Or saying “I’m fine” even when we’re not. Or pretending to scroll on our phones just to avoid talking. We’ve built this social choreography—quiet, consistent, unspoken. Most of it keeps the peace. But some of it keeps us apart. What if we broke a rule once in a while? Smiled in the elevator. Sat closer. Asked real questions. Maybe the world would crack open a little. Or maybe it already has, and we just haven’t looked up from our phones to see it.

  I wanted to be a filmmaker. I bought a camera, wrote scripts, shot short films with friends, and even submitted one to a festival. It didn’t get in. Then another. And another. All rejections. Eventually, I stopped making films. For a long time, that felt like failure. But here’s what I learned: chasing something you love forces you to stretch. I learned about lighting, timing, teamwork, rejection, and resilience. I met people I still talk to today. I created something that didn’t exist before. I also learned that loving something doesn’t mean you’ll succeed in the way you expect. Sometimes the process is the point. And failure? It’s not the opposite of success. It’s the soil it grows from.

  There was an old man on a train once who told me, “People only remember how you made them feel. Not what you did. Not what you said. Just how they felt around you.” He got off at the next stop. I never saw him again, but I’ve carried that sentence for years. There was a woman in line at the grocery store who saw me fumbling to count change. She smiled, tapped her card, and paid for my groceries without a word. When I looked at her, stunned, she just said, “Pass it on.” One night in a city I didn’t know, I was crying on a bench. A young guy with a skateboard sat next to me and said, “You don’t have to explain. Just breathe with me.” He took deep, slow breaths. I followed. Five minutes later, he left. I don’t remember his name, only that I wasn’t alone when I needed someone. Sometimes, the shortest encounters leave the deepest marks. Not all heroes wear capes. Some just show up for five minutes and disappear forever.

  The first hour felt like I was missing a limb. I kept reaching into my pocket, only to remember I’d locked my phone in a drawer. I had no notifications. No scrolling. No camera to capture the moment. Day one dragged. I went for a walk and realized how much I normally use my phone as a shield. Without it, I made more eye contact. I noticed the way sunlight hit the leaves. I heard birds. My brain, instead of being stimulated every 20 seconds, began to slow down. Day two felt like detox. I picked up an old sketchbook and drew nonsense. I read. I sat with boredom and didn’t try to escape it. I also got anxious—what if someone needed me? What if something happened and I didn’t know? By day three, I was floating. I had long conversations. I wasn’t checking the time every few minutes. I ate slower. I listened more deeply. When I finally turned my phone back on, I had 62 messages, 9 missed calls, and a dozen app notifications. But the world hadn’t burned down. I hadn’t missed any...

I woke up and didn’t decide what to do first. My phone did. I asked ChatGPT what a productive morning routine should look like, and it told me to drink a glass of water, stretch for five minutes, take a cold shower, and then journal. I followed it blindly. Breakfast? I let an AI meal planner pick based on what was in my fridge: oatmeal with bananas and a dash of cinnamon. Not bad. For clothes, I used a weather app’s suggestion: light hoodie, jeans, sneakers. Again, not bad. I had no plans for the day, so I asked an AI itinerary generator what someone in my city should do on a casual Saturday. It suggested a walk in the park, visiting a local bookstore, and trying a new café. I did all three. The bookstore suggestion led me to a book I might never have picked up on my own: A Man Called Ove. I read half of it in one sitting. By evening, I let a music AI queue up songs for my mood. It picked mostly mellow, moody acoustic songs, which matched how I felt: oddly calm but slightly ho...