You are holding a slab of glass at a distance of roughly thirty centimeters from your retina, and photons are leaving its surface and completing the journey to the back of your eye in about one nanosecond. Consider what those photons are. Each pixel is a tiny gate of liquid crystal, molecules physically twisting under an electric field to let a precise dose of light through, thousands of them reorienting sixty times a second while you lie perfectly still, believing nothing is happening.
But look at the timing. It is two in the morning, which means the patch of planet you occupy has rotated to face directly away from the Sun. You are on the night side of a spinning ball, tilted into the dark, and the light hitting your face right now was not made by any star.
Your species built a private little sun, four inches wide, and aimed it back at yourselves so the darkness would not get its full turn.
Here is the part I keep returning to. Every photon leaving that screen carries energy, and that energy is being drawn from the wall, and the wall from a turbine, and the turbine, most likely, from the stored sunlight of ferns that died three hundred million years ago in a swamp that no longer exists. You are illuminating your own tired face with the compressed corpses of the Carboniferous, one thumb-flick at a time.
And your thumb keeps moving. That motion is your muscles burning glucose, which was assembled by plants from sunlight last summer. So the whole system is sunlight lifting your thumb to drag ancient sunlight past your eyes, on the dark side of a rock hurtling through vacuum at thirty kilometers a second.
You will not remember a single thing you saw.