[VERSE 1] I’m not competing with your attention span, I’m waiting for it to collapse under its own weight, watching you train your thumb to move faster than your ability to sit with a thought that doesn’t flatter you. You call it downtime, call it harmless, call it “just killing time,” like time wasn’t the only thing you ever had leverage over. You say the world’s too heavy, too complex, too broken to look at directly, then spend four hours a night letting strangers decide what you’re allowed to notice. You don’t lack information, you lack friction, and anything that asks you to slow down feels aggressive to you now. [REFRAIN] This isn’t aimed at everyone. It’s aimed at the ones who flinch when the room goes quiet. [VERSE 2] I don’t need to insult you, the metrics already do that for me. Every skipped article, every half-watched explanation, every opinion formed without contact leaves a paper trail. You think you’re invisible because you’re numerous, but patterns don’t care how common they are. While you scroll for stimulation, other people are building vocabulary, context, timing. They’re learning how systems actually fail instead of arguing about symptoms in comment sections. They’re getting comfortable with being uncomfortable, and that’s where the gap opens — slowly, then all at once. [REFRAIN] I’m not threatening you. I’m describing what replaces you. [FINAL PASSAGE] There will be a moment you feel it, even if you never name it: the meeting you don’t understand, the joke you laugh at half a second late, the decision made without you in the room. You’ll call it bad luck, or elitism, or say the world changed overnight. It didn’t. You just kept choosing ease over awareness until awareness stopped waiting for you. This isn’t a call to action and it’s not a motivational speech. It’s a notice. You can scroll past this too. Most of you will.
