The Arduous Job of Paying Attention

I was an absurdly absent-minded child. There’s a family anecdote my mom particularly likes, where I’m six-ish and forget which foot I’ve already washed and which is still waiting. She’d call me a thing-in-itself, with the love for puns that must have been what my parents had bonded over.
Zoning out used to be my thing, a cute flaw that came with the name, but I don’t think I own it anymore. Unfocused introverts are too in. I go outside and blend in with millions of other Alices, each of us sucked into a 5-inch Retina looking glass. Earbuds in, music on, get on the subway, barely notice other humans in the car, please don’t call, I’d rather text, do not disturb, I’m too busy floating through space, warped inwards by my own gravity, warping more every second, just about to collapse on myself. There, but not really.
Who knows what’s going on there when you’re not really there. At best, you might be zombie-walking past curious conversations, wonderful weirdos—all the bits and pieces your brain regurgitates and hands you back as new ideas. At worst, other things might be happening behind your slouched back, important things. Racists-rising-to-power important. Corruption-sucking-life-out-of-your-country important. Things you should probably care about, or at the very least pay attention to.
But you can’t even pay attention to the subway car you’re in.
