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As a child, I consumed books until my eyes grew hazy. Once my GCSEs arrived, I exercised the stamina of a monk, revising for hours without a break. But in lately, I’ve observed that ability for intense concentration fade into infinite browsing on my device. My attention span now contracts like a snail at the tap of a thumb. Reading for enjoyment seems less like nourishment and more like endurance training. And for someone who writes for a living, this is a occupational risk as well as something that made me sad. I wanted to restore that cognitive flexibility, to halt the brain rot.

Therefore, about a year ago, I made a modest vow: every time I came across a term I didn’t know – whether in a book, an piece, or an overheard conversation – I would research it and write it down. Nothing fancy, no leather-bound journal or fountain pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, amusingly, on my smartphone. Each week, I’d devote a few moments reviewing the collection back in an effort to imprint the vocabulary into my memory.

The record now spans almost 20 pages, and this small ritual has been quietly life-changing. The benefit is less about showing off with obscure descriptors – which, to be honest, can make you appear insufferable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the ritual. Each time I look up and record a term, I feel a slight stretch, as though some underused part of my brain is flexing again. Even if I never use “eidolon” in conversation, the very process of noticing, documenting and reviewing it breaks the drift into passive, superficial attention.

Additionally, there's a journalling aspect to it – it functions as something of a journal, a record of where I’ve been reading, what I’ve been pondering and who I’ve been hearing.

It's not as if it’s an easy routine to maintain. It is often very inconvenient. If I’m engaged on the subway, I have to pause in the middle, pull out my phone and type “millennialism” into my Google doc while trying not to bump the person pressed against me. It can slow my pace to a maddening crawl. (The e-reader, with its integrated dictionary, is much easier). And then there’s the revising (which I often neglect to do), conscientiously scrolling through my expanding word-hoard like I’m preparing for a vocabulary test.

Realistically, I integrate maybe five percent of these terms into my everyday conversation. “Incorrigible” was adopted. “Lugubrious” as well. But the majority of them remain like exhibits – appreciated and listed but seldom handled.

Still, it’s rendered my thinking much sharper. I find myself turning less often for the same overused selection of descriptors, and more frequently for something precise and strong. Rarely are more gratifying than unearthing 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 effectiveness, it feels subversive to use my own as a instrument for slow thinking. And it has given me back something I feared I’d lost – the pleasure of engaging a intellect that, after a long time of slack scrolling, is at last stirring again.