NO CONNECTION (THE BLACKOUT)

A few weeks ago, the electricity went out in Tbilisi. The whole neighborhood disappeared at once.

It was around 2AM.

At first, I did what every responsible adult does when civilization collapses: I checked my phone — no internet either.

I was restless. I needed to know what was happening. I needed the news.
I kept refreshing a phone that had nothing to give me.

My first thought was: "Damn."

My second thought was: "Finally."

And then, once in a lifetime, something happened — I stopped caring.

I lit the candles I keep buying because they smell nice but never actually get burned; 
I put on music; 
I took my diary out of the drawer, covered in dust. I hadn't written in it for — I don't even know. Ten months? Maybe more.

For half an hour I sat there, writing by candlelight, listening to music, while the entire city stayed dark.

And I realized something that made me deeply uncomfortable: the last time I had truly slowed down required an infrastructure failure.

Not a vacation, not meditation, not some shitty advice from a podcast or a self-help book. No. 

The electrical grid had to collapse before my brain finally accepted that I wasn't expected to answer emails, check notifications, reply to messages, scroll "for just five minutes," or do something useful.

The only thing that gave me permission to rest was the fact that nobody could reach me.

Maybe that's a little sad, or maybe that's just life in 2026.

As a kid, the "No Connection" T-Rex used to annoy me. It meant the internet wasn't working. Life was over.

Somewhere along the way, we switched places.

Now the dinosaur feels free. And I don't.

Oh, how I want to be free.