Patterns of Life and Death
written by Jaron Summers © 2025
There was a time when humans survived without cell phones. This is not because they were more virtuous or better informed. It is because their brains worked faster than explanation.
A person alone in a jungle before cell phones did not possess knowledge in any formal sense. He did not know the taxonomy of the creature stalking him or the statistical likelihood of its success. What he knew—without words—was that something had altered the arrangement of the world.
Birdsong stopped.
Grass moved inconsistently.
Silence acquired intent.
He did not pause to interpret these developments. His body responded first, and by the time his mind arrived, the matter had already been settled in his favor.
This capacity is known as pattern recognition, and it predates language, agriculture, and customer support. It functions without conscious reasoning, bypasses narrative entirely, and tends to be effective precisely because it is rude, hasty, and uninterested in accuracy. Its purpose is not to be right but to keep you alive.
It did so for a long time.
Then we invented the cell phone.
Imagine now the same individual in the same jungle, confronted with the same disturbances. He feels the same unease—the peculiar sense that he has entered a conversation already in progress. But rather than leaving, he reaches into his pocket.
He removes a phone.
He types efficiently. He is practiced. He spends five or six hours a day doing this.
Am I in danger of being eaten alive?
The phone responds promptly.
Yes. Based on environmental anomalies, sound-pattern disruptions, and regional wildlife data, there is a 95% probability you will be eaten alive within the next ten minutes.
The man considers this.
Ninety-five percent, he notes, is not absolute.
He scrolls.
This is where the modern era tends to intervene.
Not because the device is incorrect. The device is impressively correct. It is calm, comprehensive, and generous with context. It offers probabilities, timelines, and an air of professional concern. Unfortunately, it communicates its wisdom in sentences.
Pattern recognition operates in milliseconds. Reading requires time. Time invites deliberation. Deliberation, in the presence of a large carnivore, is a questionable strategy.
By the time the message has been fully absorbed, the man is no longer a reader. He is a data point.
The older brain did not wait for certainty. It did not ask for corroboration. It evolved in an environment where hesitation had consequences and false positives were inexpensive.
Running from wind was embarrassing.
Running from predators was effective.
The modern world, however, encourages verification. We are trained to distrust intuition, to seek confirmation, to consult additional sources. We have been taught—politely but persistently—that unease without documentation is merely anxiety.
As a result, many of us now experience danger primarily as a notification.
The average person spends five to six hours a day looking at a phone. During that time, the head is lowered, the field of vision narrowed, the ears occupied, and the posture communicates availability. This is not an ideal configuration for noticing what is happening nearby.
Pattern recognition, like most faculties, responds poorly to neglect. Eyes trained for icons become less attentive to movement. Ears accustomed to podcasts lose interest in silence. The nervous system, bathed continuously in stimulation, grows indifferent to subtle change.
In environments where subtle change is meaningful, this is unfortunate.
Predators, it should be noted, are not especially impressed by technology. They are impressed by awareness.
A human who is upright, attentive, and scanning the environment is difficult to predict. A human absorbed in a glowing rectangle is not. The latter advertises location, posture, and intent, while remaining largely unaware of its surroundings.
From a predator’s perspective, this is efficient.
The irony is that as our warning systems become more sophisticated, our capacity to act on them diminishes. The phone delivers excellent information, but survival does not require information. It requires motion.
Motion tends to occur before explanation.
The ancient human did not ask, What is stalking me?
He asked nothing.
His body answered.
The modern human wonders whether the feeling is justified, whether the risk is overstated, whether there might be an update forthcoming. He waits. He scrolls. He appreciates the clarity.
Predators do not wait.
Pattern recognition is not primitive so much as pre-verbal. It is the same faculty that notices the wrong pause in a conversation, the false note in a paragraph, or the silence that suggests someone has left a room improperly. It is what allows animals to survive and writers to edit.
It does not improve through contemplation.
It improves through use.
If you ever find yourself in a jungle—and this is unlikely—the appropriate response to danger is not to consult a device, however informative. It is to notice the sudden quiet, the misbehaving grass, the peculiar density of silence.
Then leave.
Read later, if necessary.
The tiger will not be offended if you do not finish the article.
