I saw a reel today about Parisians enjoying their afternoon by the park or water, reading books in the sun. They sat in such a relaxed posture wherever they wanted. Someone reading a book, someone writing in their journal. And I thought to myself — what a privilege.
Even the comments agreed. Someone said people in rich countries have the luxury to be so carefree and enjoy their time however they want. Someone lamented how they have an exam tomorrow and work for the rest of the week. For people in second- and third-world countries, not working even a single day threatens survival. Our lives have been commoditised to the brink of slavery.
The chain of thought led to myself. I have a desk job Monday to Friday. After coming home at 9pm, I still work if there’s a need or emergency. I earn a decent salary, yet I always have this lingering feeling of not having enough. There’s always someone I know who is earning more, having a better life. And it haunts me to the point of overworking myself.
I started working two jobs. Worked on personal projects. Talked to Claude more than to my girlfriend and family. Building and finding ways to earn more day and night. Just because earning 12 lakhs a year isn’t enough anymore to be happy.
Happy?
What a lie.
A life built like this can never be happy. In the end all I will be left with is memories of sacrifices. Even if I end up earning a lot of money, what good would come out of it if I still have to slave away just to maintain it?
Things do get better, though. In a way. But would I ever get to enjoy the bliss of reading a book by myself in a park on a Tuesday while I am still in my 20s? Probably not. The mere thought of not working haunts me. On weekends I rarely find time to do things I enjoy. Maybe an occasional trip. Talking to old friends once or twice a month. Planning hangouts that get cancelled more often these days. Just enough sparkle in life to keep me from going insane.
Maybe when I look back on this time, I’ll feel compassion for myself.