Technology teaches passivity. Absorbed in our devices - at any

Hear now the solemn words of Julia Cameron, who declared: “Technology teaches passivity. Absorbed in our devices—at any age—we are absorbed in someone else’s perspective.” This saying is not the condemnation of invention itself, but the unveiling of a hidden danger: that the tools meant to serve us may, if left unchecked, become masters that dull our spirits and bend our vision. She speaks of the subtle theft that occurs when we surrender our gaze to screens, when our minds no longer create but only consume, and our souls drift further from their own fire.

When Cameron speaks of passivity, she warns against the stillness of the will, the erosion of our own inner voice. For every moment we are lost in another’s vision, we forget the shaping of our own. The poet no longer writes, for the screen sings too loudly. The child no longer imagines, for images are delivered ready-made. The thinker no longer questions, for answers are given before wonder has time to ripen. To be absorbed is not the same as to be engaged. It is to be lulled into silence while another’s song drowns out your own.

This danger is not new, though its form is modern. Long ago, Plato spoke in The Republic of shadows cast upon the wall of a cave, where prisoners mistook illusions for reality. Today, our devices are such shadows, glowing in our hands, commanding our eyes. They present the perspective of others—sometimes wise, sometimes foolish—yet too often we forget to turn away and seek the fire itself. Thus Cameron’s words are the echo of ancient wisdom: beware the chains of illusion, lest you mistake borrowed sight for true vision.

Consider the story of the Roman masses during the days of “bread and circuses.” The emperors, desiring control, fed their people endless games and spectacles. Gladiators fought, chariots raced, and the people, absorbed in another’s drama, grew quiet and passive, forgetting their own voice in the governance of the empire. The empire’s rulers shaped the perspective, and the people merely consumed it. This is the same danger Cameron names: when we live only in the entertainments and visions of others, we surrender the sacred duty of shaping our own destinies.

And yet, her words need not be taken as despair, but as a call to awakening. For technology itself is not the enemy—it is the slumber it induces when used without awareness. The same device that numbs can also inspire, if we return to it with intention. The same screen that drowns our inner voice can also share it with the world, if we use it as a vessel rather than a cage. The lesson is not to abandon the tool, but to master it, to wield it with the discipline of a warrior and the wisdom of a sage.

Therefore, O listener, the counsel is this: be mindful of the hours you surrender. Do not let every silence be filled by another’s voice. Set aside time for your own creation—write, paint, walk, dream—without the intrusion of glowing screens. Use technology not as a drug that dulls, but as a brush that paints. Ask yourself often: Am I absorbing another’s vision, or am I shaping my own? In this self-questioning lies freedom.

Practical action is clear. Each day, claim a portion of time where no device commands your attention. Let your mind wander, let your heart speak, let your own thoughts breathe. When you return to technology, do so as its master, not its servant. Choose content that uplifts rather than numbs, voices that awaken rather than silence. Share your own perspective, so that you may be a light in the vast sea of noise.

Thus Julia Cameron’s words stand as both warning and guide: Technology teaches passivity—but only if we forget who we are. Remember, then, that you are not born to be a vessel of another’s vision, but a creator of your own. The world does not need more passive eyes; it needs awakened hearts. Use the tools of your age, but never surrender your voice.