We’ve all heard of—and likely experienced—sensory overload.
Picture the white fluorescent lights that blind you as you trek through the mall. The sound of Ariana Grande’s 2024 single, “yes, and?” surrounds you—just like it has two other times just this afternoon. Your tote bag is falling off your shoulder, and the texture of your sweatshirt rubs your skin intolerably. Your skin is breaking out, your hair has all but fallen out of your ponytail, and mascara flakes dot your face. Your mom is calling your cell phone, and strangers keep carelessly bumping into you.
You’re driven mad.
I’ve sensed the emergence of a similar feeling when I consume too much content. (By content, I mean words and information of any sort—whether song lyrics, calculus equations, historical texts, or otherwise.)
We—as a society—overload ourselves with information. And it’s causing an almost dystopian issue.
I read the American classic Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury before my sophomore year. My general enjoyment of the story was low, but what stuck with me was the characters’ mindlessness—particularly that of Mildred Montag.
Mildred constantly barrages herself with senseless noise from screens. She has lost her ability to think critically. She is a lifeless shell.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr.’s short story Harrison Bergeron has similarly remained in the back of my mind. In his socialist future, everyone is required to have an equal amount of any desirable quality. Thus, in the case of intelligence, smarter individuals are forced to wear “handicaps” on their heads. These devices broadcast obnoxious sounds, impairing one’s ability to think.
Neither of these stories reminds me of the distant future—they remind me of now. While we don’t have screens plastered on every wall of our homes—or debilitating headsets shocking us with earsplitting noises—we have virtually constant access to content.
This isn’t just about “those darn phones.” It’s more than that; it’s about a detrimental pillar of our society.
I’ll first speak for myself: I consume too much information. At school, I spend seven hours absorbing (or trying to absorb) lessons. I read and study—and then read some more—for homework. In the car, and whenever I have free time, I listen to music. I watch a TV show for fun, and I listen to podcasts as I’m getting ready. I even do some of these at once—listening to music while doing homework, for example.
This year, I’ve reached an all-time high of information consumption, both because of classes and my own interests. I’ve become aware that, even though I enjoy learning, I have my limits. I feel myself drowning in voices.
Stories and information are cycling through my brain, everything muddying together until I can neither detangle them nor distinguish them from my own thoughts.
I begin to lose my ability to think critically. I start to feel like Mildred or Harrison.
I know that I’m not so different from my peers. While the exact sources vary from person to person, most of us are consuming information for a large part of the day.
We have a strange attachment to this noise. I can sense others’ discomfort when there isn’t a source of information—whether music, short-form content, or otherwise—playing.
I understand how irritating it can be to hear another variation of, “Take time away from the devices to unwind.” However, it’s true. Even if, as students, it’s difficult.
Yet, we need to balance the time we spend developing our own opinions with the amount of information we intake. If we merely soak up facts and others’ opinions, there isn’t room for our own beliefs to develop.
We are at risk of losing our thoughts.
The information we consume means nothing if we cannot apply it. There is little value in reciting a string of facts. Applying the information in our lives and actively analyzing its significance—that is what matters.
