We
must limit the running to and fro which most men practice, rambling about
houses, theaters, and marketplaces. They mind other men's business, and always
seem as though they themselves had something to do.
If
you ask one of them as he comes out of his own door, "Where are you
going?" he will answer, "By Hercules, I do not know: but I shall see
some people and do something."
They
wander purposelessly seeking for something to do, and do, not what they have
made up their minds to do, but what has casually fallen in their way.
They
move uselessly and without any plan, just like ants crawling over bushes, which
creep up to the top and then down to the bottom again without gaining anything.
Many men spend their lives in exactly the same fashion, which one may call a
state of restless indolence.
“Oh Karen,
get me another cup of coffee, will you? I can’t possibly manage the rest of the
day without one.”
I noticed
from a very early age how “busy” all the aspiring middle-class adults said they
were. They would sigh, and wave their arms about, and insist that they needed nothing
more than some peace and quiet, a chance to get away from the hustle and
bustle, a break from all the noise.
And even
at such a very early age, I wondered why they didn’t just do precisely that, and
stop being so pained by their efforts. What were they actually doing, I asked,
that was so necessary to make their lives so miserable? They appeared to fill
out forms, and drive from here to there, and sit in meetings.
“You’re
too young, you couldn’t possibly understand!”
I indeed did
not understand their worries back then, but perhaps in my innocence I saw
something that they, in turn, did not understand. Is all of that something you need
to do in order to be happy?
As I grew
older, my concern still stayed with me. I myself was now asked, by increasing
degrees, to live as I had seen them live. I must constantly be occupied with
matters that should take on the highest importance in my life.
What kind
of things? Appearing better, winning the battle of wills over others, making
more money so that I can then spend more money, feeling important because I was
never without an external task, without something to conquer.
Why
should I worry about how I look? Is it required for me to defeat anyone at all?
Why have more stuff? Is my value to be found in running some sort of hectic rat
race?
“That’s
how it’s done.”
But why?
“Oh, grow
up!”
Please
bear with me, because I really am trying to grow up. I’m still trying to do precisely
that.
Once I started
to ask myself what I truly needed to live well, I ran into an interesting
problem. I observed that my entitled generation had more conveniences and
luxuries than any other before it, and yet they still said they had to work
harder.
I could
grasp the toil of working for food, or for shelter, or for safety, and yet very
few of my peers were ever without such things by default. Most of them were
working for something else.
In fact,
when I got to know more people of lesser means through a job in social services,
I saw that the other half were certainly busy, but they were certainly not busy
with that kind of busywork.
When I
first came across this passage by Seneca, I had to go back a few times to make sure
that I was reading it right. That phrase, “restless indolence”, wouldn’t leave
my head, since I knew that this was exactly what I was being told to do.
Always be
active, while acting for nothing of worth. Always run around, but have no
meaningful direction. Always look to the next level of achievement, without
having a clue about what is worth achieving.
Be busy
with everyone else’s business; never ask what it means to be in the business of
being human.
Yes, it
involves being in a state of constant motion, even as it spirals in upon
itself, and it finally collapses in upon itself. It is doing everything and still
doing nothing. It is treading on water.
As odd as
it seems, it is actually a form of laziness, of always expecting genuine
rewards without expending genuine efforts.
“Oh, but
I’m so busy!”
Busy with
what? My ass grows fatter, and my virtues becomes
smaller.
Written in 12/2011
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