My ability to focus on facts presented to me has diminished in recent years. Perhaps this is because modern facts are unappealing or untrustworthy; or perhaps there are simply too many facts whizzing around: focussing on a blur merely reproduces a blur, after all.
When I was a young man, my beach reading was mostly Bible-sized, dog-eared paperbacks about paranormal phenomena and occult personalities. These books presented their arguments like a stage magician pulling an endless string of multi-colored handkerchiefs from his previously empty sleeves.
A paragraph about Simon Magus would suddenly become an assertion about Egyptian gods, get sidetracked into remarks about Aleister Crowley, and finally come to a close as a so-called revelation about Nazi warlocks. It was impossible to keep up without feeling like a volunteer from the audience getting sawn in half.
Alas, today it seems that all expositional texts are written in this manner, even science and history books. After the introduction, the deluge, as it were. Or, to paraphrase Philip Larkin: all modern books have a beginning, a muddle, and an end.
So I conclude that my poor attention to facts is not due to advancing age or smartphone addiction or any fault of mine, but is actually a consequence of living in the Age of Babble: mobs of robotic spokespersons all shouting simultaneously and incoherently, trying to get a word in edgewise amidst the deafening noise of too much information.