The 11 p.m. doomscroll and the gentle hand

It is 11:14 p.m. I have been scrolling for, I think, eighteen minutes. The thumb is on a kind of autopilot the rest of me has not authorised.

I have a small practice. When I notice — and the noticing is most of the work — I take the thumb off the glass and put my hand, flat, on my own chest. Not over the heart. Over the sternum. Lightly.

It is not a meditation. It is not, particularly, a thing. It is a hand, on a chest, in a dim room, at 11:14 p.m.

It works about half the time. The other half, the hand becomes part of the scroll — a brief, performative pause before the thumb resumes. I have learned to be honest with myself about the difference.