The kettle boiled while you were doing something else.
By the time you came back to it the water had gone quiet, so you pressed it down again — and while it heated the second time you stood there for a moment, trying to remember what it was you had gotten up to do in the first place.
Small thing. It is also the third time this morning that something has been started and then started again, and it is not yet eleven o’clock.
That is not a memory problem. It is what a day looks like when the shape of it is being decided somewhere other than in your own head.
Your day used to have edges
Think about what put the boundaries in an ordinary weekday, twenty years ago.
You got up at a particular time because something started at a particular time. You ate when the break was. You came home when the day ended, and the evening had a shape because it began when you walked through the door. Somebody was expecting you somewhere, most days, and that expectation did more scheduling than any decision you ever…