Close, loud and sudden

A man sits in traffic on King Fahd Road in Riyadh. At every red light his phone lights up.

A storm in a country he will never visit. A sale that ends in three hours. A clip of two strangers arguing. A reminder that he has already paid for a course he has not opened, so he had better not give up on it now.

Each of these feels urgent, and each is built to. Our attention was shaped for a world where what mattered was close and soon: the movement in the grass, the cloud over the field this afternoon. Things that were far away, or a year off, could safely wait. That instinct kept people alive for a very long time.

It is now the easiest handle anyone has on us. A distant story is framed so that it lands in the car beside him. A deadline is invented so a choice feels as if it must be made before the light turns green. Money already spent is waved in front of him so he will not walk away from it. Close, loud, sudden. It works because we are built for it to work.

Meanwhile the things that would change his life in five years make no sound at all. Putting a little aside each month. Learning the skill his work will need next. Calling his brother. None of them sends an alert. None of them disappears in three hours.

The light changes and he drives on, a little more anxious and no further forward. The future never interrupts. If we want it, we have to turn the noise down and go and build it on purpose.