Attention, Interrupted

Sri City : About a month ago, a friend and I found ourselves discussing our favourite childhood books, a conversation that, in hindsight, revealed far more about our present than our past. We were both once voracious readers, the kind who tore through fantasy novels with a kind of religious devotion. Yet somewhere between adolescence and the pandemic, this habit disappeared entirely. The more we spoke, the more difficult it became to ignore the uncomfortable correlation between our declining engagement with books and the rise of short-form content and OTT platforms in our daily lives.

My childhood was built around stories. I spent summers curled on the stairs or porch, imagining myself as the Boy Who Lived or one of the Railway Children, proudly announcing my yearly reading count on the first day of school. My parents, eventually overwhelmed by the financial and spatial demands of this obsession, gifted me a Kindle, an object that became an extension of myself. I read under blankets with the brightness turned low, desperate not to be caught awake past bedtime.

But toward the end of tenth grade, something shifted. I could not find books that absorbed me the way they once did. Perhaps I had been pushed toward “serious” literature before I was ready. Perhaps the constant stimulation of school, social life, and screens had already begun reshaping my attention span. Either way, reading, my oldest habit, quietly slipped away.

The pandemic accelerated this decline. My parents, both lovers of sitcoms and films, bought subscriptions to every available OTT platform. There was joy in this, my father insisted I watch The Office in what he believed was an urgent cultural correction, but it also meant hours of passive consumption. The girl who once refused to watch a movie without reading the book first now chose the two-hour adaptation over the week-long commitment of reading.

Then short-form content arrived. I had initially dismissed reels entirely, unable to imagine how 15 seconds of video could entertain anyone. Months later, it became the last thing I saw before sleeping and the first thing I reached for each morning. What was once my Kindle under the blanket became my phone. Reading had lost the battle without me even noticing.

I rediscovered it briefly through Christopher Paolini’s Inheritance Cycle, devouring those massive volumes with the hunger of my twelve-year-old self. I read while eating, before sleeping, after waking up, even skipping plans to stay immersed in Alagaësia. But when the last page of the last book arrived, the familiar, bittersweet pain all readers know, I found myself drifting back to Netflix and reels. Stories that once held me captive for days could no longer compete with the relentless novelty of scrolling.

Three years passed this way. My entertainment diet reduced itself to the same recycled reels, the same comfort shows, the same hollow bursts of stimulation. My attention span declined so sharply that even focusing in class for twenty minutes felt like a mountain to climb.

This is where the science becomes unavoidable. Short-form content thrives on what behavioural psychologists call dopamine loops. Each swipe is a micro-reward, unpredictable, fast, instantly gratifying. Platforms are engineered around “variable reward schedules,” the same principle casinos use. The brain becomes conditioned to expect and crave constant stimulation. This is what I call bad dopamine: not because the chemical is inherently harmful, but because the behaviour it reinforces is shallow, compulsive, and cognitively draining.

Reading, on the other hand, operates on sustained dopamine. The reward builds slowly, through immersion, imagination, and cognitive effort. Each page strengthens neural circuits tied to attention, memory, empathy, and comprehension. Neuroscientific studies consistently show that reading supports deep focus, while short-form content fragments it.

I did not recognise this deterioration in myself until that conversation with my friend. During it, I learned that Rick Riordan had released two new books following the Heroes of Olympus timeline. My friend, through what can only be described as coercive enthusiasm, convinced me to reread the entire universe first. Ten books. A task that, at the outset, felt absurdly daunting.

Then I read the first fifty pages.

What followed was the most comforting reconnection with my younger self I’ve had in years. I remembered plots only vaguely, making each chapter feel like rediscovering a forgotten home. I finished nine books in two weeks. For the first time in years, no reel, no show, no algorithmic feed could generate the dopamine that reading did.

With this came the most unexpected transformation: my attention span returned. My mind felt clearer. Conversations became richer. I could sit with myself again. Even my productivity, long dulled by the constant noise of digital overstimulation, rose sharply. It was as though a fog I did not know I was living in had finally lifted.

This experience left me with a few realisations I believe are worth sharing.

First, one is never too old for the books they once loved. Whether it is Percy Jackson or Enid Blyton, the right book is the one that captivates you, regardless of age or genre.

Second, reading is not merely a hobby; it is a form of cognitive self-maintenance. Our brains were not built for the endless rapid-fire stimulation of social media. The overstimulation trains us to seek only high-intensity, low-effort rewards. Reading trains us to slow down, process deeply, and think clearly.

Third, it is healthy to explore, to like or dislike genres, and to reject cultural pressure around “serious” literature. Enjoy what you enjoy. Consume what enriches you, not what algorithms push toward you.

And finally, trust your younger self. We are the last generation to have experienced a relatively technology-free childhood. The joy, imagination, and calm we found then is not lost, it merely needs to be reclaimed.

So, if you needed a sign to pick up that forgotten Kindle or reopen a childhood favourite, let this be it. Step away from the endless scroll. Rediscover the worlds that once shaped you. Your mind, starved for depth in an age of distraction, will thank you.