There must be a word for this but it escapes me

I try to understand and bring meaning

But my feet are on auto pilot and fighting for my attention

In motion to the rhythm of the cars roaring past me

I have a fixation of random sorts

Birds

Litter in the grass

Cigarette butts

Careless and thoughtless I think to myself

I judge the person that tossed it there

Who am I to judge?

Now my feet are waging an all-out assault on my senses

I have a fixation of random sorts

Lights

Sun

The moon

Empty bus stop benches

There in the distance he sits

Silent and still as if he is waiting for something

Off in a field a top a hill

We lock eyes and it is as if he harbors an old soul

Like we were one in another life

No bark

No whimper

Our eyes lock and in an instant we both are not alone