As one ages, he begins to notice less the peculiarities in individuals he meets every day. He starts to pigeonhole them into convenient categories whose justification for being is known only to him. Worse, people around him are transformed into a blur he consciously ignores especially when the categories have each been filled up. Because he believes he does not have time to stop and notice what makes that man in that hideous yellow t-shirt fall for that woman who’s twice his age, that frightened student clutch his Jansport toward his chest, or that bony woman kiss the cold vertical train handle bar. None of these catches his attention now because there are matters that preoccupy his thoughts more: the big choices he made, aging, office politics, mortgage.
He even fails to pay attention to the jazz number playing in his earphones.
He fails to notice the world passing him by because the nonessentials fill up his thoughts.
This, my readers, is the tragedy of being a full-fledged adult