Writers 
Distractions do not knock at the door,
they slip in quietly,
just when the book is finally open,
just when the mind has found its place,
just when the page begins to make sense.
Then the phone lights up,
nothing urgent, nothing important,
just a name, a status, a little notification,
wearing the innocent face of curiosity.
And somehow, one quick look,
becomes twenty minutes of knowing things I never needed to know.
I return to my books,
determined this time to stay.
But the mind has its own plans.
It remembers an old conversation,
a strange reply, a person,
a question that has no business appearing in the middle of glycolysis.
I push the thought away.
It comes back wearing another shirt.
Then hunger arrives.
Then tiredness.
Then the sudden urge to arrange things,
things that have survived perfectly well without arrangement.
Anything becomes important when the thing I should be doing is difficult enough.
And I wonder...
perhaps distraction is not always laziness.
Perhaps sometimes it is simply the mind looking for somewhere softer to rest.
Still, I return.
Not perfectly nor for hours.
Sometimes only for one page,
one paragraph,
one honest attempt.
Because maybe focus was never about never wandering.
Maybe it is learning, gently,
to notice where you have gone and find your way back.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Even when the phone vibrates like it has news
that could change the world.