I remember finishing this book on an ordinary afternoon—and feeling unexpectedly still.   Not the triumphant stillness of motivation, but the quieter kind. The kind that comes when someone has spoken honestly enough that your defences don’t know where to stand anymore. I was seated, book resting face-down, noticing my shoulders had dropped. As if something inside me had been allowed to exhale.   Limitless didn’t rush toward me waving answers. It waited. And then, very calmly,

I didn’t pick up The Art of Focus on a calm morning with incense burning and soothing flute music in the background — although that might have made me look more aligned with the title. Instead, I opened it on a messy weekday evening, surrounded by half-finished tasks, buzzing phone notifications, and a mind that felt like 37 browser tabs open at once. Ironically, I reached for a book about focus while being the least focused version of myself.   And maybe that’s exactly why t