I try to imagine it sometimes—waking up, going about my days, and never once sitting down in front of that cracked-screen computer, never hearing the soft hum of its fan as it boots up. It feels like trying to picture the sky without clouds: empty, and a little wrong. My life without a computer wouldn’t just be quieter; it would be smaller, dimmer, like a lamp with half its bulbs burned out.
First, the world beyond my small town would shrink back into stories—stories I’d heard but never felt. I’d still know the ocean exists, of course, but it would be just a word again, not the vivid image of the Great Barrier Reef’s rainbow fish that I can pull up anytime. I’d hear about the Eiffel Tower or the Taj Mahal from tourists who pass through the grocery store, but I’d never have stared at photos of them until my eyes felt heavy, never have imagined what it would be like to stand under that tower’s glow or walk near that white marble. The fields around my town would still be beautiful, but they’d be the only beauty I knew—no more late nights scrolling through photos of Amazon water lilies or South African proteas, no more feeling like I could reach through a screen and touch a world I’d never seen. My two real eyes would only see as far as the horizon, and that third eye—the one that let me look farther—would be gone.
Then there’s the loneliness, quiet but sharp. I’d still talk to my neighbors, still laugh with my mom over her apple pie, but I’d lose the friends I’ve made online—the plant lovers from Brazil and Australia, the girl from Canada who loved photos of my town. We’d never have shared garden tips or talked about how fog looks different in different parts of the world. When I found a new wildflower in the fields, I’d have no one to send a photo to, no one to say, “Do you know what this is?” I’d go back to knowing only the people who live within a 10-mile radius, and that small circle would start to feel tight, like a jacket that’s too small. My mom says I was quieter before I got the computer—more likely to sit alone with a book than talk to someone new. Without it, I think I’d slip back into that quiet, into a life where I never got to share the things I love with people who love them too.
Even the small, daily things would feel harder. I’d have to write my grocery lists on paper, and if I lost the list, I’d forget half the things my mom asked for. My wife would spend hours balancing our budget with a calculator and a notebook, erasing and rewriting numbers until her hand ached—no more Excel sheets to fix mistakes with a click. My nephew, who loves watching cartoon clips on my computer when he visits, would have to settle for coloring books; I’d never see him laugh so hard at a silly cat video again. And the photos—oh, the photos. I’d still take them with my phone, but I’d be scared to delete anything, scared the phone would break and I’d lose the pictures of my mom’s garden, of my nephew’s first bike ride, of the sunset over the wheat fields. Without the computer to back them up, those memories would feel fragile, like leaves that could blow away in the wind.
I’d also lose the part of me that loves to learn. Before the computer, I thought I knew all there was to know about plants—until I typed “rare Amazon plants” and found a whole world of things I’d never heard of. Without it, I’d never have learned how to fix a leaky faucet by watching a tutorial, never have read articles about stars or distant galaxies, never have felt that spark of curiosity when I discover something new. I’d go back to knowing only what I can learn from the town’s small library, from the people around me—and while that’s not bad, it’s not enough. The computer made me want to ask “why” and “how,” made me want to reach beyond what’s easy.
Sometimes, I’ll turn off the computer for a day, just to see what it’s like. But by evening, I’ll find myself sitting in front of it, turning it on without thinking. It’s not that I can’t live without it—it’s that I don’t want to. It’s not just a machine; it’s the thing that made my small life feel bigger, that connected me to people and places and ideas I never would have found on my own. It’s the thing that holds my memories, my friends, my curiosity.
Without a computer, my life would still be full of good things—the rooster in the morning, the wheat fields at sunset, my mom’s apple pie. But it would be missing something important: the light that lets me see beyond the town, beyond the fields, into a world that’s bigger and brighter than I ever imagined. I don’t want to go back to that smaller life. I want my third eye—and all the joy, curiosity, and connection it brings.