From this deeper place, I want you to notice something simple but important. A thought is not a command. The urge to check your inbox is a thought, often paired with a feeling. A flicker of unease. A static in the chest. A reaching in the hands. Up until now, that flicker has felt like an order. Check. Now. Or something bad will happen. But notice, here, in this room, that the thought 'I should check' can arise, and you can simply watch it cross the room. Like a small bird flying from one window to another. It enters. It passes. It leaves. You did not have to obey it. You did not even have to argue with it. You simply let it move. Practice with me now. Let the thought form. 'I should check my email.' Notice it. Now, in your mind, place those words on the screen on the far wall. See them written there, in plain text. 'I should check my email.' Notice that they are just letters. Just shapes. Now, watch the words slowly fade. They had no power of their own. They borrowed power from your obedience. Try another one. 'What if I missed something important.' Place those words on the screen. See them. Notice the small tightening in your body that comes with them. And notice that the tightening is also just a sensation. It rises. It peaks. It softens. You do not have to act on a sensation. You can let it move through you, the way weather moves through a sky. From now on, when the urge arises in your real life, you will remember this room. You will recognise the urge as an old habit, not a true emergency. You will be able to say, quietly, in your mind, 'There is the thought again.' And in that small naming, the thought loosens its grip. The unread number is just a number. It is not a measure of your worth. It is not a measure of your safety. It is not a list of disappointments. It is a count of things, some of which matter, most of which do not, all of which can wait until you choose to look. You are the one who chooses. Your phone is a tool. Tools are picked up for a purpose, used, and put down. When you pick up your phone from now on, you will find yourself pausing for half a breath, and asking, gently, 'What am I actually here for?' If there is a real reason, you will do that thing, and put the phone down. If there is no real reason, you will notice the urge, smile inwardly at the old pattern, and let the phone rest. In the evenings, your hands will remember this softness. They will reach less. They will rest more. Your bed will become a place for sleep again, not a second office. The bathroom will become a place for the bathroom. The red light will become a moment to feel your breath, not to feel your inbox. And if a thought arises, 'just one quick check,' you will hear it the way you hear a radio in another room. Present, but not in charge. You can close the inbox. You can close it because you know how to open it again, on your own terms, at a time you choose. Closing is not abandoning. Closing is trusting that the world keeps turning while you live in it.
