Our lost focus

Why do we suffer from the problem of lack of attention?

Author's name: Johann Hari

When my godson was nine, he developed a bizarre (but short-lived) obsession with Elvis Presley. He would sing “Jailhouse Rock” at the top of his lungs, trying to imitate the King’s own undulations and bob-bob. Little did he know, this style of singing was now a joke; so he performed it with all the heartfelt sincerity of a pre-teen, believing it made him sound cool. In the brief pauses before singing the same song again, he would demand to know everything about Elvis (everything! everything!), so I told him this stupid, sad, exciting story. I told him: Elvis Presley was born in one of the poorest towns in Mississippi. Far, far away. He came into this world with a twin brother who died minutes after birth. As a child, his mother told him that his brother could hear his voice if he sang to the moon every night, so he sang and sang. He began performing his songs to audiences during the same period that television was becoming popular, and in no time, he became more famous than anyone before him. Wherever Elvis went, people would scream with excitement, until his entire world was a scream. He withdrew into a cocoon of his own making, glorifying his possessions instead of his lost freedom. He bought his mother a mansion that he named Graceland.