Imagination as a Buffer

Imagination as a Buffer

Many years ago, when I was a new student, before the era of cell phones, an older student suggested that I observe myself during my morning ritual of coffee-and-newspaper at my usual café. And I saw myself. I saw myself suddenly fall into an abyss of imagination, lose myself in information I didn't care about, and enjoy doing it. It was interesting to observe what and how I read—passing from one unimportant article to another unimportant article, reading some parts and skipping others. I saw how a newspaper is built, how headlines and topics create a network dedicated above all to evoking and engaging the jacks of centers.

My coffee break consisted of ten minutes of deep imagination. Why am I doing this? I asked myself. I wanted to relax for a few minutes, take a break from the tension of my work. So I found myself doing what I made fun of in others, when they said, "I work hard all day; in the evening I sit in front of the television and I just want to watch something light, not too demanding." I'd always thought that was a weak excuse for sinking into lethargy, but now I realized I was doing exactly the same thing.

Today the external situation has gotten worse. We spend long periods with our cell phones in our hands—email, WhatsApp, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram. Work messages are mixed with birthday greetings, notes reminding us to buy bread and lettuce, spiritual questions about presence. The parade of distractions is endless. We feel required to live for prolonged periods with only virtual experiences. It isn’t so much the subjects we choose but the habit of jumping quickly from one subject to another—all the while doing several other things: walking, eating, driving—that kills any possibility of being present.

I've noticed an interesting buffer: when I feel particularly tense, I open the phone and start checking for Facebook posts or email. It happens completely automatically and I do it at a furious pace.

What's wrong with that? It's done to escape reality, not to participate in it. And I'm not doing it; it is done unwittingly and mechanically. I have described imagination as a passive drug, as dreams taking the place of an active effort to be present. Now I'd like to emphasize its aspect as an active drug, one used by the machine to spare itself moments of truth that are judged to be too boring, exhausting, or unpleasant.

Sergio Antonio, "A Question of Presence"

Join the discussion