Burnout
The myth of the weekend as a cure for exhaustion persists in our fast-paced lives. We rush toward those two days, hoping they will undo the damage of endless deadlines and to-do lists. Yet, in our race to pause, we often inflict more harm by stacking work, skipping reflection, and collapsing into a shallow illusion of rest. This poem explores that paradox: the frantic sprint toward a stillness that never quite heals.
we sprint, we race
toward the unhurried weekend
that does nothing
but calmly wait.
There’s a method in our madness,
or so we claim,
though inwardly we resent
the breathless to-do list
and hollow pride
forced on us
in accomplishing it.
And yet
we don’t slow down,
don’t reflect
we charge toward that illusion
of a comfortable couch
where we’ll collapse in a heap,
feigning absolute death,
as if that stillness
could somehow restore us.
In our desire to reach
free of workaholic debt,
we might heap more weight
on breaking plates,
unknowingly inflict
more damage
no weekend
could possibly heal.
That line “feigning absolute death” made me laugh and wince at the same time, so real.
😀🤣😜