On Monday, the 28th of April, Spain, Portugal and parts of France were left power-less. Just like that- lights out, electricity wires down; no connection, no machinery, no automated led lives. Cities came alive.
And the people, they came out, blinking into the sunlight like they’d been held underground too long. It was as if the whitish-blue glow of screens had seeped into their bones, and suddenly, all that artificial light was gone — leaving space for something slower, warmer, a feeling we had forgotten. It’s strange, isn’t it? How much we forget until it’s taken away. How we build our lives around tabs and timelines, calendars and convenience, scrolls and screens. Until we’re forced back to remembering that we once knew how to just sit, how to watch the clouds, how to talk without typing, and walk without a destination.Â
In these eighteen hours of freedom, people were seen wandering onto the streets and into each other’s lives. Everywhere people spoke— with their mouths, their eyes, through gestures. Language wasn’t watered down to an abbreviated text— no double tapping or auto-correct. Parks were dotted with picnic blankets and board games. The streets sang with dance and music; long silences, a bit of chatter, and spontaneous conversations. A neighbor you’d never met asked how your day was— you shrugged, smiled. You stayed. There was no escape lying in your back pocket — no device to save you from the intimacy of the present moment.Â
We are not built for this speed. For inboxes that never empty. For news flashes that refresh before we can comprehend . For the way our fingers twitch toward our pockets when a moment stretches too long. We are but human, pretending to be efficient machines, but when the cities die power-less, we are suddenly reminded that we were never made to be charged— only moved.Â
Moved by action. By voice. By the company of other people.
When did we forget that our world doesn’t glow of blue and white screens? That our bodies crave more than the rigorous clacking of keys. That joy isn’t scheduled and meticulously planned— it spills, sneaks, and surprises. A couple kissing too hard, a child laughing too loud, a stranger sharing fruit. A circle forming— not for protest or transaction, but to just exist together. For no reason except that we can.Â
I’m jealous of all those who were forced to their digital detox. They were lucky enough to have a taste of life that isn’t measured in productivity but rather in presence. We’ve been aching too long. For touch, for real time, for a single uninterrupted breath. Maybe we’ve packed our lives so tightly that there’s no room left to live and feel them.Â
But we haven’t lost knowing— of how to be still, go slow, how to gather and be present. We haven’t unlearned these soft skills of being human, it’s just buried under the rush, urgency and busy pace we’re convinced is necessary. Sometimes it takes a blackout for us to see clearly again. Look up. The sky is sitting still- blue, wide and watching. You’ll be surprised to find that you still know how to belong to it. Somewhere, someday we’ll be lucky enough to feel this again.