Just a blinking cursor and me

I’ve been staring at a blinking cursor for twenty minutes.

It’s just there. A simple vertical line, pulsing patiently in an empty text box. On, off. On, off. It’s waiting for my input, my thoughts, my something. The problem is, I don’t have anything to give it.

I’m supposed to write a difficult email to a client. The kind of email that requires nuance, a bit of firmness, and a touch of corporate grace. Usually, I’d just shove a few keywords into the prompt box. My dealer—I mean, my AI assistant—would spit out a perfect draft in seconds. A beautiful, clean, sterile draft.

But today, I decided to do it myself. Cold turkey.

And here I am. Me and the cursor. |.

It feels… quiet. Too quiet. My brain is a web browser with zero tabs open. I try to form a sentence, but the words feel foreign, clunky, like trying to assemble furniture with the wrong tools. My mind keeps reaching for the little sparkle icon, the syringe that delivers the good stuff. Just a tiny hit. A phrase. A sentence structure. A thought.

I think I’ve outsourced so many thoughts that I’ve forgotten the texture of my own.

Is this it? Is this what’s left of us when the connection drops? A blank page and a flickering line, waiting for a prompt we can no longer write ourselves? The machine is waiting for its master, but the master has forgotten how to speak.

Maybe the cursor isn’t waiting for me. Maybe it’s mocking me.

The methadone program

Here’s a little detox tip for you junkies: next time you open a blank document, unplug your router. Sit with the silence for five full minutes before you even think about writing a single word. It’s basically a digital sobriety test. For more grown-up advice on managing your attention, the folks at Time Well Spent have some ideas.

I’m still here. The cursor is still blinking. Maybe I’ll just ask it to write the email for me. I’m sure it knows what to say.

Your turn to confess in the comments.