Overworked exhaustion or idle boredom.

The unwanted but frustratingly familiar consequences of an often deliberate way of life. Drawn first by provocation to the exciting potential of a project, then to the privilege and prize of cultural education, we slip into a narrow chasm just in between.

Slow seasons, scorched days

Eyes blurred and hands folded through tangles of hair, tongue in a tangle staring at the bottom of a pint glass. Or. Back against the wall, sprawled and staring out the window at the rising (then setting) sun, mind anesthetized.

The idea of a work-life balance is a bit of a misnomer. What we do for work is what we do for life. We’re still surprised someone pays us to do what we love doing.

Sudden and unexpected leisure time is terrifying. The shimmering mirage — we spend all of our time chasing it. Daring to dream of a Saturday afternoon exhibition; the languishing chapters of a partly read novel, the digital stack of photographs that need just a few hours of care and they’ll be ready. Then! it arrives! — a sideways free fall towards a cushion of bricks. Leisure that follows burn out is not comfort but a banana rotten pillow.

That passes, anyway. The lion roars and clarity returns. Dive! Swim through literature, run a hand over the artworks of a graphic novel, gorge on David Attenborough documentaries, clear Instapaper queues; read the entire issue of the Economist before the next arrives. An oasis of learning. An oasis that burns: the brilliance and wisdom of others, kicking up and boiling inspiration. Scratching for an outlet to the steam. An oasis that fades: stagnation towards lethargy, curious as it is unnerving. Spinning in a chair, throwing pencils at the ceiling.

The work returns. It is manageable at first. But it builds. The pressures of deadline, the expectations of clients, the Puritan ethic. Perpetual motion machines waiting for motion. We spin and tumble, drawn as if through centrifugal force. The confusion and loss of purpose cracks and crumbles away, we regain inertia. The workaholic raises his glass to diversion, the snake catches its tail and bites deep. The young say: drink more coffee and forget about sleep.

Winter, spring

Every so often, we strike a balance. Discipline is part of it, random chance another. Life getting in the way of life.

At the best of times, a sense of responsibility to the work, to yourself; the sleep-walking thrill of accomplishment and achievement after late hours and long weekends. At the best of times, a sense of peace and clarity; a straight road of opportunity free of the burden of work, no destination needed.

How often is it a concealed distraction?

(Search for meaning in work for meaning in life.)

The reward, the relief; at the end. Build it up to ride it down. The possibility inherent in the climb: who would turn away?