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As a child, I consumed books until my vision blurred. Once my exams came around, I demonstrated the endurance of a ascetic, revising for hours without pause. But in lately, I’ve watched that ability for deep focus fade into endless browsing on my device. My focus now contracts like a snail at the touch of a thumb. Reading for pleasure seems less like nourishment and more like a marathon. And for someone who creates content for a profession, this is a occupational risk as well as something that made me sad. I wanted to restore that mental elasticity, to stop the brain rot.

Therefore, about a year ago, I made a modest promise: every time I encountered a term I didn’t understand – whether in a novel, an piece, or an casual conversation – I would research it and write it down. Not a thing fancy, no leather-bound journal or fountain pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, ironically, on my phone. Each week, I’d spend a few minutes reading the list back in an attempt to imprint the word into my recall.

The list now covers almost 20 pages, and this tiny ritual has been quietly life-changing. The payoff is less about showing off with uncommon adjectives – which, to be honest, can make you sound unbearable – and more about the cognitive exercise of the ritual. Each time I look up and record a term, I feel a slight stretch, as though some neglected part of my brain is stirring again. Even if I never use “phantom” in dialogue, the very process of noticing, documenting and revising it breaks the drift into passive, semi-skimmed attention.

There is also 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 simple habit to maintain. It is often very inconvenient. If I’m reading on the tube, I have to stop mid-paragraph, pull out my phone and enter “millennialism” into my digital document while trying not to elbow the stranger squeezed against me. It can reduce my pace to a maddening crawl. (The e-reader, with its integrated dictionary, is much kinder). And then there’s the reviewing (which I frequently forget to do), dutifully scrolling through my growing vocabulary collection like I’m preparing for a word test.

Realistically, I integrate perhaps five percent of these terms into my daily speech. “Incorrigible” made the cut. “mournful” too. But the majority of them stay like exhibits – appreciated and listed but rarely used.

Nevertheless, it’s rendered my mind much keener. I notice I'm reaching less often for the same overused selection of adjectives, and more often for something exact and strong. Rarely are more gratifying than discovering the exact term you were seeking – like locating the lost component that snaps the image into position.

In an era when our gadgets drain our focus with merciless efficiency, it feels rebellious to use mine as a instrument for slow thought. And it has given me back something I feared I’d lost – the joy of engaging a intellect that, after a long time of slack browsing, is finally waking up again.