Deepa waits patiently on LinkedIn for my thoughtful response about her book. Published in English, German, and Dutch. Now Greek publishers want it too. The reminder sits in Gmail & the expectation sits in the cloud.

Stelios detonates Viber with Eurovision odds, Oscar predictions, and Sanremo results as if cultural equilibrium depends on my awareness. Substack sends me essays from Siim in Oslo that I save for “later,” that mythical place where I become intellectually disciplined. Pinterest suggests a softer life. Three photography newsletters insist my current camera body belongs in a museum. Booking.com warns me that only two seats remain. A grotesque pop-up ad expands across the screen. I close it. Another appears. Bien sûr.

My three nephews in Athens conduct advanced emotional analysis across WhatsApp, Instagram voice notes, and the iMessage group chat. They are not breaking up. They are diagnosing. They ask me to position myself. Precisely. They use abbreviations from TikTok and Discord that require translation. I decode. I respond like a responsible adult.

Facebook comments spiral under a political post. Misogynistic remarks. Racist threads. I tell myself I won’t open them. I open them.

Reliable newspaper sites escalate headlines. I verify facts on ChatGPT before coffee because apparently, this is who I am now.

Kate Moss appears on Facebook Reels and Instagram. I watch the entire Gucci video. Every second. The back of her dress is quietly revolutionary.

Immediately after, a war video from Tehran auto-plays on the BBC. Smoke. Sirens. Running figures. I watch that too. Angry. Powerless. While it plays, a notification drags me toward the New Yorker reading list I saved last week. “Ten Books You Should Read This Spring.” Of course I should.

Tatiana reschedules with joy our Google Meet through Google Calendar and inserts two new photo shoots into next month, while Slack pings politely. My parents call me on Skype. Yes, Skype. Old-fashioned and proud. I haven’t spoken to them in a week. They threaten to unfollow me on Instagram. They say TikTok is more interesting anyway. I am losing authority in my own family.

Somewhere between decoding my nephews’ abbreviations and admiring Loukas’ noble profile, I open Signal and message Stefanos in Qatar. Are you safe? Did anything land nearby? War, once distant, now arrives like weather alerts. He replies calmly. I breathe.

The Zurich tax office contacts me through their online portal and also by physical mail. They insist on being unforgettable. They succeed. Especially when I saw the bill.

By noon, I feel like I’ve completed a triathlon inside a notification center.

This spring, I made a “Panos decision”. Not dramatic or performative. I started protecting small pockets of silence. Ten minutes without reaching. My favorite coffee without scrolling. One headline instead of twenty. Attention is not something we owe the world at all times. It is something we allocate. Carefully and Intentionally. Like love.

When I lift my eyes from the screen and look at the Alps through the window, their scale replaces every alert, all the algorithmic demands. The race softens.

And somehow, even in all this, my parents still make me laugh. I picture them proudly syllabising, very clearly, “Tik… Tok.”

And in that picture, I feel sufficient.

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Panos