Codex

1,237 words6 min readAutosave enabled

I’ve lost my phone. Not just misplaced it — it has evaporated into some cosmic limbo, leaving me both exposed and, strangely, a little free. One minute it was clutched in my pocket after a night shift; the next, it was gone, left behind in the seat of a stranger’s car, a stranger whose number I don’t have, whose kindness I cannot summon, except through an employer who treats my existence like a utility meter: as long as I show up, everything else is irrelevant. Empathy? Optional. Helpfulness? Invisible. Humanity? Checked at the door. So, in a tiny act of rebellion, I canceled all my shifts until some miracle returns my lifeline. It’s absurd, isn’t it? How a rectangle of glass and plastic can dictate the rhythm of your life. In a world run on notifications, pings, and instant updates, it is the ultimate tool of survival — the lifeline between me and civilization, between me and opportunity, between me and relevance. Without it, I am untethered, adrift, exposed. Anxiety coils like smoke in my chest.

And yet… there is a perverse relief in being cut off. The rat race, the endless tug-of-war of other people’s urgencies, the invisible leash of convenience — it’s gone. No vibrating reminders jerking me awake, no emails demanding instant attention, no late-night calls from people who, in the grand scheme, are not worth a single heartbeat of my stress. Suddenly, the world stops its relentless hammering at my consciousness. The constant pressure to respond, to curate, to perform, evaporates. I can breathe. It is strange, almost scandalous, how liberating it feels to exist outside the grid. I can sip my tea without thinking of a text I “must” reply to. I can walk through Cornwall's streets without counting the minutes until the next notification. I can feel the cold air on my face, the uneven rhythm of my own steps, the subtle soundtrack of life that has nothing to do with pings or alerts. Each moment stretches just a little longer; each thought is unfiltered, unsent, private.

The absence of the phone is, in its own ironic way, a rebellion. It is a tiny assertion of sovereignty in a life where so much feels dictated by circumstance, deadlines, and obligations. I am untethered, but not lost. I am exposed, but not vulnerable. For the first time in a long while, I am the owner of my own attention, the master of my own time, free — absurdly, defiantly free — in a world that equates constant connectivity with survival. And yet, freedom tastes bitter in small doses. At bus stops, I squint at clocks I cannot trust, trying to guess when the next bus will arrive. I navigate streets without GPS, turning corners into uncertainty. Paying fares becomes a juggling act when cards fail or are forgotten. I stare into space, longing to turn a page on a book trapped in an app I can no longer reach, watching precious minutes vanish. My phone could have solved all these. Instead, I am left to invent workarounds, improvise, survive. And in that quiet, self-imposed exile, I find a rare joy: the reminder that control, no matter how small, is still power.

The tug-of-war begins. Part of me wants to hunt it down, to replace it, to return to the current of the world, to reclaim the convenience, the connections, the little lifelines I have surrendered. Another part whispers: maybe this is a gift. Maybe this is freedom masquerading as inconvenience. Anxiety flickers inside me, a faulty wire sparking in the dark. I pace, I stew, I imagine the silence: no buzzing, no pinging, no demands — a quiet that borders on sacred. And yet, I am haunted by the connections I have lost, the opportunities slipping through invisible cracks. I think of my family, my friends, every small ritual the phone facilitated — the check-ins, the updates, the lifelines. Each one now suspended in a void I cannot reach. And still, the quiet tempts me. How strange to feel both liberated and imprisoned by absence. It is a paradox I cannot untangle: the same thing that ensures survival is also a cage, and its absence is both loss and reprieve.

Yet, this dance seems awfully familiar. I remember, during those fifteen months before graduation, how survival felt the same way: relentless, uncertain, sometimes cruel, sometimes quietly beautiful. I survived hunger, deadlines, and cold classrooms; I survived loneliness and cold winds biting through inadequate layers of clothing; I survived each day as though it were a battle. And now, the absence of this small digital lifeline feels like a continuation of that same struggle — a new arena where control and surrender clash. It seems I’m trapped in an infinite loop, my own personal Groundhog Day of struggle. Is this my hell? Or have I simply grown addicted to my own suffering?

I imagine the world adjusting to my disappearance. Maybe someone will notice. Maybe not. Maybe this is the only moment where I am truly inaccessible, and the irony tastes sweet: to be desired and ignored, to be urgent yet untouchable. And in that, there is a kind of power I have not felt in years. A small rebellion against expectation, against the omnipresent surveillance of convenience. Still, anxiety gnaws. The practical side reminds me: “You need it. You can’t live without it. It’s your only connection to the life you’re clawing toward.” The defiant side snaps back: “And yet, you survived worse. Maybe this is the only fight you can win entirely on your own terms.” I hover between search and surrender. The tension coils tighter with each passing minute. Part of me imagines replacing it immediately — the relief of reconnecting, the promise of returning to order. The other part dreams of letting it remain lost, of living untethered, if only for a while, and tasting what it feels like to exist outside the invisible demands of a world that never sleeps.

I do not know which side will win (who am I kidding, we do, there's no escape here). But in the uncertainty, there is a strange clarity: control, no matter how small, matters. Sometimes, it is the absence of connection that teaches you the power of your own presence. Sometimes, survival is not about being reachable, but about reclaiming your space, your mind, your breath. And yet, guilt coils quietly in the corners — a reminder that the universe expects me to show up, to be present, to answer, to exist for others, to honor the invisible debts of attention I carry. And maybe, just maybe, the lost phone is not a loss at all — but the first step toward being untouchable, untamed, and truly free, even if I owe the cosmos a little apology for disappearing along the way.

So I stand here, untethered, unlisted, unreachable — guilty and free, accountable and absurd. And for now, I let the world wait. Let the pings and the calls and the urgent expectations gather dust. I will return… tomorrow. But today, I am mine. And in this fleeting, absurd, precarious invisibility, I find something I rarely feel: power, quiet and unborrowed. Freedom, however small, tastes bitter and sweet all at once. And that, perhaps, is enough for today.

“I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.” — Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland