When busyness is no longer about productivity, but rather becomes an escape from those deeper, nagging, questions.
"How are you friend?"
How often do our conversations begin this way? How often does that word stop a conversation in its tracks?
Busy. It's become a state of being that requires no further explanation. Or does it?
I get it. You get it. What's to explain?
Busy. The word has become the sum total of my life equation, as if it could add up to nothing else.
Each morning I step onto the treadmill of my existence, always running but, strangely, never arriving. A hamster on a wheel.
Daily I rejoin the pursuit, moving at a frenetic pace. Pursuit of what? The American Dream? Though we are told it is alive and well, for most of us it is an UN-reality.
Still I run, chasing the incentives dangled in front of me, hoping to catch up to the Dream and make it my own. Maybe this year I'll get that bonus!
Busy. Do I know how to be anything else? I have become an expert in perpetual motion, in multi-multi-multi-tasking.
I can check my social media feeds, post a status update, take a selfie, create a meme, share it with my friends, dislike a video on YouTube and check the news headlines, all in the time it takes to read this.
Yeah, I'm busy.
Am I afraid you ask? I don't have time to be afraid! Am I afraid? Yes, maybe I am. I fear the silence or, worse, solitude. I fear the sense of loneliness they bring.
I find it hard to sleep at night without some kind of noise in the background, masking the noises of whatever danger lurks outside.
I hate when everything around me goes silent, when I can hear the proverbial pin drop. Questions start creeping to the surface in the stillness when I finally stop to listen, questions to which I have no answers.
What if I'm not enough? What if I don't make it? What if I can't provide for my family? What if my dreams are nothing but a cruel joke? I hate these questions!
So I run, and I run. Now I set the treadmill to a steeper incline and I work just that little bit harder.
Perhaps then I could afford the 50, 60, 70, 80 inch high definition TV, or a car more befitting my new social status in life. I've earned it haven't I?
Busy. I've got things to do and simply don't have time for your problems, I have enough of my own. I have no answers anyway, so just deal with it okay?
I hate the way that sounded, I'm sorry friend. By the look on your face I can tell that you're hurting. Now I'm afraid again...I don't know if I want to go there with you. Can I cope?
Our lives are so much simpler when reduced to 140 characters or less, when short blurbs on social media and even shorter text messages suffice, making deeper conversation unnecessary.
I've got to stop and rest, I'm so tired...
Here come the questions again...Am I afraid to feel? Am I trying to escape? Am I running from something, instead of to something? Does the running numb the pain?
Is "Busy" my new addiction?
Is "Busy" My New Addiction? © 2015 by Kris Peterson. All rights reserved.