The dream. The perfect day where I do nothing of measurable value, yet somehow, by the time night falls, I feel like a wise philosopher who has mastered the art of existence.

The day begins not with an alarm because alarms are for people with plans. I wake up when the universe gently nudges me—not a second earlier. I stretch, not to be productive, but simply to prove that I am still partially functional. My joints make noises that suggest otherwise.

Breakfast is a spiritual experience. Not because I eat anything special, but because I stare into my coffee like it holds the secrets of the cosmos. It does not. But I nod in understanding anyway.

The day presents itself like a blank canvas, full of potential. I could achieve great things, or I could sit and contemplate the ceiling. I choose the latter, for reflection is important. (Or at least, that’s what I tell myself while achieving exactly nothing.)

Tasks arise—emails, chores, responsibilities—but I skillfully avoid them with the precision of a ninja dodging an attack in slow motion. Productivity tries to lure me in, but I resist. I understand the game. I will not be fooled.

At some point, I check my phone for a second—which, of course, turns into an eternal spiral of distraction. I emerge hours later, having learned nothing of value except that someone, somewhere, has built a couch entirely out of cheese. Fascinating.

Lunch is an act of moderation and risk management. Eat too little? I’ll be hungry. Eat too much? I’ll have to lie down and question my life choices. I eat just enough to convince myself that I am still in control.

Afternoon arrives, a time historically associated with doing things. I reject this notion. Instead, I walk around my house thinking about the things I should do. Thinking is close enough to doing, right?

As the sun begins its slow retreat, I reflect:

Have I done anything of significance today? No.

Have I solved the mysteries of life? Also no.

Have I somehow made it through an entire day without really doing anything at all? Absolutely.


And yet, as I settle in for the night, I feel content. Not because I accomplished anything, but because existence itself is enough. I have laughed, I have pondered the universe, and most importantly—

I have successfully avoided responsibility.

And if that’s not true mastery of life, I don’t know what is.