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When I was a youngster, I devoured novels until my vision blurred. Once my exams came around, I exercised the endurance of a monk, revising for lengthy periods without pause. But in lately, I’ve observed that capacity for deep focus dissolve into endless browsing on my device. My focus now contracts like a snail at the tap of a finger. Engaging with books for enjoyment feels less like sustenance and more like endurance training. And for someone who writes for a profession, this is a occupational risk as well as something that made me sad. I aimed to restore that cognitive flexibility, to halt the brain rot.

Therefore, about a year ago, I made a modest promise: every time I came across a word I didn’t know – whether in a book, an piece, or an casual conversation – I would look it up and record it. Not a thing elaborate, no leather-bound journal or stylish pen. Just a ongoing record kept, amusingly, on my phone. Each seven days, I’d spend a few minutes reviewing the collection back in an effort to imprint the word into my memory.

The list now spans almost twenty sheets, and this small habit has been subtly transformative. The benefit is less about peacocking with obscure descriptors – which, let’s face it, can make you appear insufferable – and more about the cognitive exercise of the ritual. Each time I look up and record a term, I feel a faint stretch, as though some neglected part of my mind is flexing again. Even if I never use “phantom” in dialogue, the very act of noticing, documenting and revising it breaks the drift into passive, superficial focus.

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

It's not as if it’s an easy routine to keep up. It is often very inconvenient. If I’m engaged on the subway, I have to stop in the middle, take out my phone and type “millennialism” into my Google doc while trying not to elbow the stranger pressed against me. It can reduce my reading to a frustrating crawl. (The e-reader, with its integrated lexicon, is much easier). And then there’s the reviewing (which I often forget to do), conscientiously browsing through my growing word-hoard like I’m preparing for a word test.

In practice, I integrate maybe 5% of these terms into my daily conversation. “Incorrigible” was adopted. “Lugubrious” too. But the majority of them remain like museum pieces – appreciated and catalogued but seldom handled.

Nevertheless, it’s rendered my thinking much sharper. I notice I'm reaching less frequently for the same overused selection of descriptors, and more frequently for something exact and strong. Few things are more satisfying than unearthing the perfect term you were seeking – like finding the lost puzzle piece that locks the picture into position.

In an era when our gadgets drain our attention with merciless effectiveness, it feels rebellious to use mine as a tool for slow thought. And it has restored to me something I worried I’d forfeited – the pleasure of exercising a intellect that, after a long time of slack browsing, is finally stirring again.