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When I was a youngster, I consumed books until my vision blurred. Once my exams arrived, I demonstrated the stamina of a monk, revising for hours without a break. But in lately, I’ve observed that capacity for deep concentration dissolve into infinite scrolling on my phone. My focus now contracts like a slug at the touch of a thumb. Engaging with books for enjoyment feels less like sustenance and more like a marathon. And for someone who writes for a profession, this is a professional hazard as well as something that made me sad. I aimed to restore that cognitive flexibility, to halt the brain rot.

So, about a twelve months back, I made a small vow: every time I encountered a term I didn’t understand – whether in a novel, an article, or an overheard discussion – I would look it up and record it. Not a thing fancy, no leather-bound journal or fountain pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, ironically, on my smartphone. Each week, I’d spend a few minutes reading the collection back in an attempt to imprint the vocabulary into my memory.

The list now covers almost 20 pages, and this small ritual has been subtly transformative. The benefit is less about peacocking with obscure descriptors – which, let’s face it, can make you sound insufferable – and more about the cognitive exercise of the ritual. Each time I look up and record a term, I feel a slight stretch, as though some neglected part of my mind is stirring again. Even if I never deploy “phantom” in conversation, the very process of spotting, documenting and revising it breaks the slide into inactive, superficial focus.

Additionally, there's a diary-keeping aspect to it – it functions as something of a diary, a log of where I’ve been engaging, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been listening to.

Not that it’s an easy routine to maintain. It is frequently very inconvenient. If I’m reading on the subway, I have to pause mid-paragraph, take out my phone and type “millenarianism” into my digital document while trying not to bump the person pressed against me. It can reduce my pace to a frustrating crawl. (The e-reader, with its integrated lexicon, is much easier). And then there’s the reviewing (which I frequently forget to do), dutifully scrolling through my expanding vocabulary collection like I’m studying for a vocabulary test.

In practice, I incorporate maybe 5% of these words into my daily speech. “unreformable” made the cut. “Lugubrious” too. But most of them stay like museum pieces – admired and listed but rarely used.

Nevertheless, it’s rendered my mind much sharper. I notice I'm reaching less frequently for the same tired selection of adjectives, and more frequently for something precise and strong. Few things are more satisfying than discovering the exact term you were searching for – like finding the missing component that snaps the picture into place.

In an era when our gadgets siphon off our focus with relentless efficiency, it feels subversive to use my own as a tool for slow thinking. And it has given me back something I worried I’d lost – the pleasure of exercising a mind that, after a long time of lazy browsing, is finally waking up again.