Art by Charlotte Benson

It’s not easy being lazy.

What people don’t ever mention is the tyrannical obstacle course from hell that develops in our psyches when we are unproductive. Some may call it self-afflicted, but I used to call it my equilibrium.

I feel that I am in my element when my mind is clear of all responsibilities, of all truths about what I need to be accomplishing. However, when I look at my closest friends and peers, who all seem to know what they’re doing, envy fills this empty, vain pit inside me with enough agency to get up and do something with my life.

But, as I continue to add more and more onto my plate, I find myself asking this: Why do I keep doing this? I keep feeding and eating all these colors, but they don’t mean anything to me. Yet, I hate that I love the hue it gives me. I like the color it gives my veins and I love to show it off to my friends and my parents and say “look, I’m being a productive member of society, am I doing it right?”

While I think that this socially enforced productivity is a phenomenon that affects

every person equally, I also think there is something to say about the effects that the American capitalistic cog machine has on the immigrant mindset.

I know…me know big words and me put in long sentence. But no one ever really mentions this omnipresent generational guilt: As a first-generation immigrant, we work hard off the memory of the American Dream, our parents achieving something from nothing.

I have all these opportunities to do something bigger and better for them, to prove that their struggle wasn’t just for their daughter to lay in bed and waste away. Constantly needing to pile myself with work, projects and roles because the blush of not filling my mind with perpetual stimulus burns if I’m not working to be successful.

But after doing this a while, I’ve come to like the blaze. I’m addicted to the hurt, the ephemeral gratification, even if it’s self-sabotage. I love feeling like I have purpose in my life, especially when it’s not even close to the truth. Even if I fail, at least I’ll be adequate. I take those nasty, wretched colors and stain myself anew.