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As a child, I consumed novels until my vision blurred. Once my exams arrived, I exercised the stamina of a monk, studying for hours without pause. But in recent years, I’ve watched that ability for deep concentration fade into infinite browsing on my phone. My focus now contracts like a snail at the tap of a thumb. Engaging with books for pleasure seems less like sustenance and more like a marathon. And for someone who creates content for a profession, this is a occupational risk as well as something that left me disheartened. I aimed to regain that mental elasticity, to stop the brain rot.

Therefore, about a year ago, I made a small promise: every time I came across a word I didn’t understand – whether in a novel, an article, or an overheard discussion – I would research it and record it. Nothing fancy, no leather-bound journal or fountain pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, amusingly, on my phone. Each week, I’d devote a few moments reviewing the collection back in an effort to imprint the vocabulary into my recall.

The list now spans almost twenty sheets, and this tiny ritual has been subtly life-changing. The payoff is less about peacocking with uncommon adjectives – which, to be honest, can make you appear insufferable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the practice. Each time I search for and record a word, I feel a faint expansion, as though some neglected part of my brain is stirring again. Even if I never deploy “phantom” in conversation, the very process of noticing, logging and reviewing it interrupts the slide into inactive, semi-skimmed focus.

There is also a diary-keeping element to it – it functions as something of a diary, a log of where I’ve been reading, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been listening to.

Not that it’s an simple routine to maintain. It is often extremely impractical. If I’m engaged on the tube, I have to pause in the middle, take out my phone and type “millenarianism” into my digital document while trying not to elbow the person pressed against me. It can slow my reading to a frustrating crawl. (The Kindle, with its integrated lexicon, is much kinder). And then there’s the revising (which I frequently neglect to do), conscientiously browsing through my expanding vocabulary collection like I’m preparing for a vocabulary test.

Realistically, I incorporate maybe five percent of these terms into my everyday speech. “unreformable” made the cut. “mournful” too. But the majority of them remain like exhibits – appreciated and listed but rarely used.

Nevertheless, it’s made my mind much keener. I notice I'm turning less frequently for the same overused selection of descriptors, and more often for something exact and strong. Few things are more gratifying than unearthing the perfect term you were searching for – like locating the lost puzzle piece that locks the image into place.

In an era when our gadgets siphon off our attention with merciless effectiveness, it feels rebellious to use my own as a tool for slow thought. And it has given me back something I worried I’d lost – the pleasure of engaging a intellect that, after a long time of slack browsing, is finally stirring again.