The Digitalization of Our Lives.

We are inevitably marching towards the scenes of "RoboCop" and "Demolition Man", where the sci-fi is becoming non-fiction. Almost everything is leaving behind its physical form for a faster, better version. The digitalization of our lives is happening right before our very eyes. Neither John Spartan or Alex Murphy can save us. My stepfather had a very impressive library; it was remarkable how many books he had. Hundreds of classics, fiction and non-fiction. Even as a child when I cared nothing for literature, I would occasionally brag to my friends about what an impressive wall of knowledge I had within my grasp.

My son may not even know what a real library is by the time he is my age. He actually loves the library, but even he is being swept up in this digital tide. The digitization of books, films, and photography has also cut into our social interactions. People who would see my stepdad’s library couldn't help but be impressed, and it's a memory. Every book you read, you probably remember what you were feeling at that time or the type of music you were listening to while reading it. It comes with an entire memory of activity surrounding just that one book.

Movies were the most socially obvious changeover. Not seeing the video rental stores anywhere seriously does harm to my heart. It was a social event to go to the movie store and pick out your very own film festival to watch all weekend. It was a great date; you get to know each other as you browse the selections. Guys having to give in to their softer sides to impress the girls. I was fine only seeing “Titanic” once, but I watched that shit far more than that.

Photographs are the other thing that irks me about the digital world. I remember my grandmother, my mom, my dad, aunts, and uncles all had several photo albums lying around the house. Some set out nicely and some stored away in closets. It was always the highlight of my childhood to flip through old photos with the family and learn about the stories that made up their lives. Seeing pictures of my mom and dad when they were teenagers made me feel a new connection to them. Seeing the goofy, weird clothes they had, hearing them talk about those days. I mean, that's a whole family tradition that just discontinued. Sure, my sister has a few family photos throughout her house, and we do too, but all those photos that used to fill those albums now stay dormant in your cellphone, forever being locked away in your cluttered albums that have no organization. Furthermore, are you just going to hand your phone over to someone and let them carelessly scroll through your photos? I'm sure grandma would understand scrolling across a dick pic, but it's not something we should have to subject her to.

Books seem to be holding on strong, and although it’s more convenient and less space-consuming, don't forget about the scent of the pages, the way a really great book made you feel. I read “The Road” and I wanted to tell everyone about it. I wanted my best friends to read it. Don’t let books fall victim like film and photography. Build your library. Be different, buy photo albums and fill them with the ones you love, share them with each other. Remember, one day when all your friends are busy and your kids will have their own lives, you may find yourself bored. Wouldn’t it be nice to sit down with a home video or family photo album?

We’re accelerating at whiplashing speed, our memories and connections being filtered through pixels and Iphone screens. But don’t forget the things that truly make us feel human. The scent of a book, the warmth of a photo album, the thrill of browsing video store aisles. These are the things that anchor us, that remind us of who we are and where we come from. So, hold on to them, cherish them, and don’t let the digital tide wash them away.

In this brave new world, we are becoming digital nomads, drifting through the cosmos, free from the physical mementos that once defined our social interactions. Our libraries, once towering monuments to human knowledge and curiosity, are now distilled into sleek, sterile devices. Our photo albums, once gateways to family history and shared experiences, are now buried in our smartphones, forgotten amidst the selfie clutter.

The analog world had a way of grounding us, of providing touchstones to our past. A book was more than just words on a page; it was a physical object imbued with memories, a portal to another time and place. A photograph was more than just an image; it was a moment frozen in time, a piece of history that connected us to our ancestors and our heritage.

But in our quest for convenience and efficiency, we are losing something essential. We’re shedding the experiences that once gave texture and depth to our lives. We’re trading the scent of old books for the cold glow of a screen, the weight of a photo album for the ephemeral swipe of a finger. These digital facsimiles, while efficient, lack fucking soul. They lack the connection to our past, like the grit of an old photo bringing that feeling to life.

Think about the social rituals we’ve lost. The pilgrimage to the video store was more than a chore; it was a communal experience. It was a chance to discover hidden gems, to argue about which movie to rent, to bond over shared tastes and guilty pleasures. Now, with the advent of streaming, we’ve traded that rich, messy experience for the sterile efficiency of an algorithm. We’ve outsourced our choices to faceless data points, losing the spontaneity that made those trips special.

Even our family interactions have been digitized. Where once we’d gather around a photo album, flipping through pages and sharing stories, we now pass around our phones, scrolling through endless streams of images. The act of sharing a physical photo, of passing it from hand to hand, creates a connection that digital photos simply can’t replicate. There’s a weight to a printed photo, a permanence that a digital image lacks. It’s a relic, a piece of history you can hold in your hands.

I remember the days when our homes were filled with these treasures. Bookshelves warped under the weight of well-loved volumes, photo albums tucked away in closets, home videos stacked next to the VCR. These objects were more than just things; they were repositories of memory, physical manifestations of our experiences and connections. They provided a sense of continuity, a bridge between past and present.

Now, our homes are increasingly minimalizing. Our libraries are virtual, our photos live in the cloud, our movies are streamed. It’s all incredibly efficient, incredibly convenient, but at what cost? We’re losing the rituals, the shared experiences that these physical objects facilitated. We’re losing the sense of connection to our past, the physical reminders of where we’ve been and who we are.

The digital revolution has brought undeniable benefits. It’s made information more accessible, communication more instantaneous, entertainment more convenient. But it’s also brought a profound sense of disconnection. We’re more connected than ever, yet somehow more isolated. We communicate through screens, our interactions mediated by technology. We share our lives in reels and instagram posts, but the depth, the richness of real, in-person interaction is lost.

There’s no going back, no putting the genie back in the bottle. But, be mindful, to hold on to the tactile, the tangible, the things that make us human. Build your library, fill your shelves with books that you can hold and smell and touch. Create photo albums, not just digital folders. Make home videos and watch them together, not alone on your devices.

Remember the joy of flipping through a well-worn book, the thrill of discovering an old photo, the communal experience of browsing a video store. These are the things that anchor us, that give our lives texture and depth. In a world that’s increasingly digital, increasingly ephemeral, hold on to the tangible. Cherish the physical. These are the things that ground us, that remind us of our humanity.