In an era flooded with alerts and updates, the human mind struggles to stay afloat. What was once a quest for knowledge has turned into a battle for clarity.
By Abid Hussain Rather
There was a time when knowledge was a beacon of light—an instrument of wisdom, reflection, and inner peace. It elevated the human spirit, sharpened judgment, and illuminated the path to understanding. But in today’s digital era, that light seems to have dimmed beneath the glare of endless screens. Knowledge, once a liberating force, now feels like a weight pressing on the mind. Every ping, every notification, every breaking-news alert or forwarded message adds another layer to the suffocating fog of information that envelops us. What was once a lamp in the darkness has become, for many, a burden of noise—a phenomenon experts now describe as “information overload.”
Information overload is not just a buzzword but a psychological reality. It occurs when the brain receives more data than it can process, leaving individuals confused, restless, and unable to separate truth from falsehood. In this digital age, humanity seems collectively trapped in this vortex, its thinking and emotions quietly reshaped by an unending flood of information. The problem begins at dawn. Before our feet even touch the floor, we reach for our phones—our supposed windows to the world. Within seconds, we are bombarded by updates, forwards, messages, and news bursts. What should be a moment of calm awakening becomes a plunge into chaos. The half-awake brain, still gathering itself, must juggle multiple signals, opinions, and visuals, and by the time the day begins, much of our mental energy has already been spent.
Psychologists warn that instead of enriching awareness, excessive information often clouds it. Clarity gives way to confusion, focus to fatigue. Decision-making slows, anxiety grows, and the very technology designed to expand human potential begins to paralyze it. Research from the University of California paints a startling picture: the average person today consumes the equivalent of 34 gigabytes of information daily—roughly equal to reading 150,000 words a day. The human brain, however, was never designed for such a deluge. Neuroscientists caution that cognitive capacities like memory and focus are finite. When overwhelmed, the mind either shuts down or suffers stress. The result is a strange irony—an age more informed than ever, yet more uncertain, distracted, and mentally drained.
The casualties of this overload are not abstract—they are human. Peace of mind is the first to fall. Psychologists call it “decision fatigue”: the exhaustion that comes from making too many choices, from deciding which article to read or which video to watch to picking dinner or bedtime. Workers complain of declining productivity, their attention shattered by constant notifications. At home, families sit together yet live apart—each member’s gaze fixed on a glowing screen. The dinner table, once a place of conversation, has become a silent assembly of digital islands. The simple joy of human connection is being eroded, replaced by the sterile comfort of forwarded jokes and fleeting emojis.
The problem feels especially acute in Kashmir, where the cycle of “breaking news” never seems to pause. A single event is replayed, reposted, and reshaped countless times across channels, each claiming authenticity. Social media amplifies the confusion—thousands of voices competing for attention, each shouting its version of truth. Viewers, overwhelmed by contradictions, are left unsure whom to trust. The very purpose of information—to clarify reality—seems to be collapsing under the weight of its own excess.
Young people are particularly vulnerable. For them, staying “updated” has become a compulsion, a badge of relevance. A student preparing for exams opens YouTube in search of help and ends up lost in a maze of tutorials and motivational talks, each promising a better shortcut to success. Instead of clarity, the learner finds confusion; instead of mastery, mental fatigue. Hours are spent switching between screens, and the mind, craving direction, is left scattered. The digital chase for improvement often ends in diminished focus and growing anxiety—a silent tragedy of the online age.
The consequences reach deep into society. Families fracture, attention spans shrink, and empathy erodes. Parents are absorbed in scrolling through news feeds while children retreat into virtual worlds of games and influencers. Even in shared spaces, the glow of the screen commands more attention than the human face across the table. A generation that communicates more than ever before is, paradoxically, losing the art of true conversation.
Yet all is not lost. The way out does not lie in rejecting technology but in reclaiming control over it. The first step is introspection: how much of what we consume online adds value to our lives? How many hours vanish in aimless scrolling? Setting boundaries—allocating fixed times for checking updates, muting irrelevant groups, and practicing “digital mindfulness”—can restore a sense of calm and agency. Parents must guide children to build healthy digital habits, teaching them to distinguish between meaningful learning and mindless distraction. And journalists and content creators, too, have a moral responsibility: not every event deserves the tag of “breaking news,” nor every opinion the dignity of fact. The media must return to its original purpose—to inform with authenticity and restraint, not to overwhelm for engagement.
In the end, the challenge of our age is not lack of information but lack of balance. The poet T.S. Eliot once asked, “Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?” His words echo louder today than ever. The true task before us is to rediscover that wisdom—to remind ourselves that information is a tool, not a master. When we learn to filter, prioritize, and disconnect, knowledge can once again become what it was meant to be: a source of light, not a burden of noise.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of this newspaper. The author can be reached at [email protected]
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