Parents, teachers, friends, societies, and generally most people within such societies told me (and probably told you too), directly and indirectly, that doing, doing, doing is the preferred way of being. And that stopping, stopping, stopping is the road you take if you’re eager to fail. That’s what the good old Italian grannies swear by when they brush their short-haired waves with wide-tooth combs, and you, so small and pink-t-shirted, sit on their labored laps, and they lull you, gently, in your so small and gold-earringed ear, whispering, “Chi dorme non piglia pesci” (“Who sleeps does not catch fish”).

I came to know, years later, that a similar idiom exists among the English-speaking wise men, who tell you, in their wise, manly voices, “The early bird catches the worm.”

Different animals, but similar intent to convey the same state of affairs: you shall channel the Moirai of efficiency, craftiness, and productivity if you want to grasp the human condition, that is, what makes humans specifically (efficiently, craftily, productively) human.

To this, I say: sure. Action, engagement, and involvement (and hunting and gathering, and fishing, and mirroring a bird catching a worm) are all parts of being specifically (efficiently, craftily, productively) human. And thus, all parts of who I am and, I believe, who you are. However, what they sold me (and probably sold you too) was that all this doing and producing and gathering would lead us to be the “anything-we-want.” From what I recall, that was the deal, right?

Then, looking at all these biweekly economic recessions, rising rents, burning forests, the hush-hush layoffs, and degrees turned paperweights, it is becoming clearer and clearer that there is no room at the table for all of us (the overeducated, over-extracurricularized, over-believers in no God but too many dreams) to sit and taste the delectable meal of Realized Desire. Only some get a chair; only some get a spoon; some don’t even get invited into the dining hall.

Then came manifesting and spirituality and New Age shimmer, telling us there’s still hope. That we should write things in a blessed diary. Make moon water, sun water, and (tear water). That if something doesn’t happen, it’s because the universe doesn’t want it to, or it’s because the universe has so many other doors wide open that it is only going to get better.

But what they didn’t tell me (and, I believe, didn’t tell you) is that the second name of “Universe” is “Privilege.” And that Privilege is actually what gets you the Things towards the “anything-we-want.” And that (lack of) privilege intersects with (lack of) abilities and (lack of) access and, concretely, (lack of) resources (that is, money). And if you didn’t already have it (the Universe/Privilege), it will be difficult (if not impossible) to reach what you desired (or what parents, teachers, friends, and societies, and generally most people in such societies, made you and me believe you and I desired). No matter how many affirmations you pour into crystal-charged mason jars.

I have done, done, done, done, done, done. And you probably did, did, did, did, did too.

Look at us; look at me. This is the last match I have to burn. And after all my doings, all my burnings, all my hustlings and postings and upskilling and soft-skilling and hard-skilling (and all my pretending), I still have nothing (that I really, authentically wanted). The fire is de-extinguishing. I am bled dry. God(s) (and Goddesses) and Heaven(s) and Moirai were displaced by our dreamful, Pinterest vision-board futures, but hell stayed. And I burn (out) in an oversaturated, entry-level, 3-to-5-year-experience, tech-dominated, pensionless market of flames. Nothing more to do, do, do, do, do, so I silently wail.

Sleep creeps up on me, but it’s never able to seize me. The night slides through. It tickles me, but it doesn’t lure me. Maybe I don’t want to be caught. Maybe I don’t recognize that softness anymore. Maybe I am terrified of pauses. They told me they are lethal, the Pauses. Is there anything else I can do? Is there anything else I should do? Doing-things-is-right is so concrete that the self-questioning flows too unforced on its surface.

Sleep creeps up on me. The night slides through. And I rest, restless. Mourning in this valley of tears.

Hail, Holy Restlessness, Mother of Us, the Insomniacs, our sorrow, our bitterness, our hyper-caffeinated, full-of-will-to-perish selves, when 7 a.m. strikes, and we haven’t slept, again.

To thee we cry, poor banished children of REM. To thee we send up our sighs, our whimpers, and our dry-eyed, flickering-screened lamentation in this sleepless exile.

Turn then, O Delirious Advocate, your racing thoughts of mercy toward us. And after this, our long night of doom (scrolling), show unto us thy stillness, thy quiet, thy being okay with what we already have, thy being okay with not having a chair, thy being okay with not having a spoon, thy being okay with not having an invite, and thy serotonin-sweet lull, O gentle, O vacant, O forgiving Night.