Laziness

there are days when the soul feels heavy

like it's been carrying centuries of meaninglessness.

and there they are,

the men with bent backs,

sitting in front of a screen

waiting for a divine sign

that never comes.

the women too,

with warm cups of tea

and plans to reinvent themselves on Monday.

all of them waiting for the perfect moment

as if life came

with clear instructions

and a guaranteed happy ending.

laziness isn’t sloth,

it’s knowing —deep down—

that nothing really matters,

that the world keeps spinning

with or without you,

that being brilliant or average

sometimes ends the same

when everything dissolves anyway.

but we still sell ourselves stories.

he says he needs motivation.

she says she’s not ready yet.

soft lies,

like blankets to keep from freezing

in the nothingness.

the truth is this:

sometimes laziness

is the only honest thing we have.

a quiet surrender

to the absurd machinery

of who-we-should-be.

and maybe, just maybe,

that makes us more human

than all the successes

displayed in glass cases.