10.15am, March, Sedona, AZ, COVID
I speed down the winding hill past the school. Mountains shine in the distance. Glowing red rocks, cut at strange angles. The sun glares in my face as I turn off the highway, twisting around corners as fast as I can.
The red rocks give way to pine and juniper trees, past a few desolate houses until the paved road turns to dirt.
I kill the engine and look around to make sure no one saw me.
The silence of the desert. For miles and miles.
I grab the locked metal box and hurry up the path through the scrub, past the cactus and dry grass until I see the old tree.
No one would know.
Tiptoeing off the beaten path, I try my best to leave no trace. Behind the tree, the grey rocks sit in a pile exactly where I remember them. I pry them aside, drop the metal box into the hole I'd carved out before, and heave everything back into place.
I step back and look carefully. Fresh eyes.
I crouch and look again.
There is no way anyone would know. And why would anyone be all the way out here anyway?
My heart calms a little as I carefully retrace my steps back down the path. Jump back in the car and pull away, dust flying behind me.
On the drive back, a smile creeps up on my face.
A small victory.
Something heavy lifts. A sense of exhilaration bubbles up.
I roll the window down and let the desert air play with my hair. The mountains look different now. Brighter.
More magnificent. Glowing.
I can breathe.
…
When I walk back into my house, the whole place — the house, the world, my mind — feels lighter. Bigger. Expanded.
I feel like I've been released from jail. Or recovered from an illness.
The whole world has more air in it. More light, more colour.
I can actually see things.
That night I sleep more deeply than I have in years.
The next morning I wake to another world, because I know I have space now. A week later I barely recognise my life or myself. My brain and thoughts have slowed down. Time has expanded.
I notice the stars and the moon. I hold conversations differently. I sit in the sun and just am. I sip my tea in my little rose garden and can actually feel grateful for life.
I feel so good I worry if what I'm doing is illegal. Have I somehow tricked the system and now someone is coming for me?
But I know it won't last.
13 days later everything collapses.
Michael has spent much of his working life online—and much of the rest of it trying to stop that technology taking over. He has thrown a phone into a lake, locked devices in boxes and experimented with long periods offline. He writes about what helped, what failed and how to keep the useful parts of digital life.