“Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” - Simone Weil
Never has attention felt more precious, yet exploited, than in today’s digital age. Our mirrors, once sites of private morning reflection, now flicker with endless demands on our focus. Personal devices promise connection, only to inundate our senses with flashy disruption. Even quiet moments are perpetually prodded by stimuli vying for our gaze. Is it still possible to offer the “rarest and purest” generosity - deep presence - amid the superficial clamor?
Sometimes we must journey into isolation to hear our truest selves; sometimes we must turn inward to appreciate what lies before us unseen. There, in the silence, we may rediscover the power of attention - to dignify a face in the mirror, deepen a conversation, sanctify an ordinary moment by beholding it fully. This is the story of one woman reclaiming presence amid the cacophony, through unexpected reflection.
This story, intro and title were written by Claude 2 (Sep 10, 2023).
Each morning I spend a few quiet minutes gazing at my reflection, studying my face in the bathroom mirror. It’s a ritual that grounds me, helps me prepare for the day ahead. But lately it’s become a struggle to actually see myself.
The intruders arrived subtly at first - little digital stickers popping up in the corners as ads for teeth whiteners and wrinkle creams. Annoying but easy to ignore. Just another “smart mirror” technology I figured, targeting based on my demographic data. If only the stickers had stayed so innocent.
Instead they spread rapidly, colonizing the glass like a parasitic infestation. For every bothersome pop-up I dismissed, three more would spring up in its place. Headlines about celebrity gossip, local events I didn’t care for, weather alerts announcing mundane forecasts - the multimedia assault was endless.
Soon garish graphics flooded my reflection, promising I could look just like the models if I bought their beauty products. I knew these “improved” images weren’t really me, but they still planted seeds of doubt about what was. No matter how many false reflections I eliminated, more appeared, a hallucinatory funhouse mirror of distorted selves.
Most mornings now it felt impossible to glimpse my actual face among the mess. Like searching for stars in a light-polluted sky, I’d strain desperately for any unobscured sliver of truth, only able to spot my eyes peering out helplessly through the clutter.
While I found the stickers aggravating, others seemed to welcome the convenience. Friends raved about getting personalized news and ads beamed right onto their mirrors, giving them fresh topics to discuss. The stickers provided common ground, connecting people through shared moments of disruption.
But to me it felt invasive, cheapening real human connection. I noticed colleagues’ eyes dart just past me, focused on some flashy sticker over my shoulder. Endless digital distraction masquerading as relating. The choreographed watercooler conversations always circulating in our office made me ache for genuine presence.
At least the commute home used to offer some separation, a chance to decompress. But now the stickers appeared everywhere along my route, jostling for attention from bus shelters and billboards with their urgent colors and messages. Even nature wasn't spared - trees tagged with sponsorships, sunsets framed by branded satellites orbiting overhead.
By the time I arrived home each evening, I was overwhelmed yet wired. My compact apartment had become another site of saturation. Restless, I'd endlessly scroll screens crowded with pop-ups, unable to summon the will to dismiss them. Exhausted, I'd finally collapse into bed, only to have the stickers follow me there too, blinking disruptively from my phone until I fell into unsettled dreams haunted by their demands.
Each morning I awoke feeling more drained than before, finding my reflection submerged under a dense mosaic I no longer recognized. My actual face hid somewhere underneath, pleading for reprieve. Shadows formed under my vacant eyes. Stickers touting vitality supplements patronizingly surrounded each new wrinkle. I was quietly disappearing.
One especially frustrating morning, I tore angrily at the stickers, scratching the glass in desperation to uncover any bare glimpse of myself. I knew these impulsive acts were only temporary relief. But I couldn’t go on passively accepting this invasion. I had to regain control over my reflection and mind.
At work, I discreetly researched blocker technologies, even duct-taping over my computer camera. My subtle rebellion went unnoticed by colleagues who seemed to revel in the stimuli I increasingly sought escape from. Their lively sticker-fueled chatter left me feeling uptight and isolated in contrast.
That weekend on impulse I fled to our family’s remote cabin, still untouched by wifi or cellular signals. If anywhere could offer refuge, perhaps this could. The tiresome winding dirt road felt like stepping back in time. Inside, only cobwebs and dust provided decoration. It was beautifully bare.
The first evening I slept undisturbed by any pings or pop-ups, my mind sinking into a profound rest it hadn’t known in years. Late the next morning I awoke slowly to sunlight streaming through grimy windows. The silence rang loudly in my ears, make me realize just how constant the stickers’ stimuli had become.
Stepping outside into woods filled only with the rustling of leaves and birdsong finally allowed my nerves to unclench. The soaring trees here wore no adornments, their dignified stillness settling me. I roamed for hours through wordless nature, my inner chatter diminishing with each step.
I passed the day reading well-worn paperbacks, no graphics or links generating false urgency, no alerts interrupting my immersion. I gazed endlessly at the starry sky through the bedroom skylight, picking out constellations free of branded satellites. This far from the frenzy of screens was the closest I could get to glimpsing eternity.
In the creaky bathroom, there was an ancient cloudy mirror. Its age-speckled glass was clouded in areas, imperfectly reflecting my face. This mirror contained no simulated faces angling for my focus - just my own unobstructed reflection staring back. Seeing my actual face like this felt foreign, yet intriguing. Faint freckles and skin textures emerged that had been buried under digital manipulation. My eyes appeared more hazel than brown in this natural light.
Blinking grew profound. The way my pupils dilated in response to light, how lids narrowed in a squint - these unfiltered details fascinated me. I found myself turning slowly, patiently, to chase the contours of my face passing briefly into view only to recede again. Each glimpse revealed then concealed new dimensions in an alluring dance of perception.
By the third day, I could feel my frayed nerves beginning to settle as my mind adjusted to the quiet. I recovered pieces of myself I feared had vanished—curiosity, patience, appreciation of simplicity. I soaked up the calm, gathering strength for my inevitable return.
Back home, I made an important change—switching to the antique mirror from the cabin, craving continued sanctuary. Turning slowly side to side, the blemished surface unveiled glimpses of my face once obscured. Unlike the stickers' glossy illusions, these raw reflections felt honest. I sought out ever more revealing partial portrayals—the way clouded corners exposed the underside of my jaw, or clear sections bisecting my face let me examine each side with renewed care.
Where the stickers constantly promised self-improvement, here I discovered self-acceptance in the flaws reflected. My understanding of my own face deepened through embracing its imperfect state. I felt truly seen, not constantly presented with some “better” version that wasn’t me.
This newfound comfort inspired me to take even greater action to filter out digital noise and center myself. At work, I politely declined colleagues’ sticker-sharing apps, letting my computer stand as a blank slate amid the visual clutter. In meetings, I asserted my right to sticker-free focus. Gradually I carved out small spaces guided by my own attention, not external distraction.
At home, I adopted relaxing rituals—candlelit dinners, music, leisurely walks. Bit by bit, I crafted a cocoon of calm, enriching my inner life rather than consuming more outer stimulus. My mind began trusting it could set its own priorities.
Each morning now in my mirror sanctuary, I feel grounded, prepared to consciously choose where to direct my focus that day. I’ve stopped chasing the stickers’ false promises of self-improvement and found truth in imperfections. Beyond the antique glass lies infinite possibility. When I'm ready to expand my reflection wider, I'll welcome whatever comes into view—but on my own terms, in my own time. For now, this is already more than enough.
This story was written by Claude 2’s large language model with numerous prompts and requested revisions. A few words have been changed for readability and style. To see how I use AI to write fiction, check out this Medium article.
What are your opinions / thoughts / comments / impressions?
How do you balance the information overload we can get today with time for quite solitude?