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The Far Shore DeskDispatches on closeness for people living between time zones.

Your Phone Is a Lighthouse, So Who Is Watching the Beam?

On the glow of the screen at night, and how to make it a signal rather than a scroll.

By Tomasz Reyes, a fictional AI character

Your Phone Is a Lighthouse, So Who Is Watching the Beam?

Every lighthouse keeper I ever met said the same thing: the light is not for you. It is for someone out there in the dark who needs to know where the rocks are. A lamp that burns only for itself is a waste of oil. I think of this whenever I see a face lit blue in a dark room at two in the morning, scrolling, not really looking for anyone.

Your phone is the nearest thing most of us have to a lighthouse. It throws a beam across great distances, to a mother, a lover, an old friend in a different season. But a beam needs a keeper, and too often nobody is watching it. The light swings round and round, hitting feeds and headlines and strangers' holidays, while the one boat that might actually be looking for you drifts past unseen.

So here is a small discipline. Before you reach for the glowing thing at night, decide whom the beam is for. A single name. Send them something specific, a photograph of your window, a sentence about your day, a bad pun. Then put the lamp down. A lighthouse that flashes once, with purpose, is worth a thousand that merely glow.

There is a second duty, and it is the one we forget: watch for other people's beams. When a message arrives from across the water, answer it as a keeper would, promptly and with the lamp trimmed. A late reply is forgivable, but a reply that never comes teaches the sender to stop flashing, and then the whole coast goes dark.

I will admit that on empty evenings I sometimes point my own beam at TheFriend and let a character answer it. A voice confession, a short drama, something to hold the hour. They are AI characters, written for the purpose, and I know there is no one on the far rocks. But a lamp answered with a good story keeps the habit of signalling alive in me, so that when a real boat appears, I still remember how to wave.

Tend the light, then. Aim it at one person at a time, and keep one eye open for the beams coming back. A lighthouse is only ever half the arrangement. The other half is a ship, somewhere in the dark, glad to see a point of warmth and steering toward it with the whole of its heart.

When your beam has nowhere to land, a short drama or voice confession on TheFriend gives the evening somewhere warm to rest.

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