Burnout is dead. Long live burnout.

This was part of a collaborative prompt on Substack. It is where I posted it originally, but I thought of sharing it here too. I believe it is quite raw, but also quite relevant. And perhaps we could make it a public prompt here too. Feel free to publish your own "day in the life" and link it to me. I'd be glad to read.

3:00 a.m.

The world stirs. Cortisol spikes. Insomnia rings. Its gong is too loud. Already, I am thinking about work—this relentless clockwork that never rusts; the cogs that hiss, but never fall out of their axle.

My cat meows. I scratch him behind the ears. I try to fool myself that I can fall back asleep. But God knows, I can’t. My mind is already captive. Capitalism calls me from afar. I calculate the number of hours I have before I need to clock in.

I want them all, but they are too few. Five hours isn’t nearly enough for my ambitions.

I ask Google to turn on the lights. I get up.

Cortisol spikes again.

I let it.

4:00 a.m.

My keyboard is already stained with my fingertips. Coffee steams gently—it will be gone in a few minutes. I write my time away, and this is the best sensation in the world. I command to words, I blunt their resistance one click of the key at a time.

I come alive because I create—without constraints, without expectations, without limits.

It is the only time I will feel that way for the whole day.

I mourn the freedom before it’s gone.

6:00 a.m.

I glance at the clock. Not the physical clock—who still has those?—but the one in the top right corner of my monitor. I write faster now. As if I am trying to squeeze every last drop of my free time. And they drip away, don’t they? These small minutes that trickle too fast.

I bite my lip. I feel time’s passage like a weight on my chest.

I know I have two hours before work. But it makes no difference.

I check my emails for fires—

The kind that will take all day to extinguish and throw a wrench into my plans.

I have 20 unread messages.

Some cold marketing, others people claim are fires.

Cortisol spikes.

I close my work tab.

7:00 a.m.

Time mocks me. I am hungry. I tell myself most people don’t eat this early, but again… Most people don’t wake at 3:00 a.m. either.

Cortisol spikes. Hunger deepens. It carves its way down my nerves.

I make yogurt and fruits. I am reasonable and I eat healthy. I contemplate making a third coffee—I decide against it.

I eat while looking at the clock. Then, I rebel. A small resistance that aims to reclaim my time.

I open Substack. I try to see if my dream of becoming a full-time author is still alive. I measure its progress through the number of notifications I received overnight.

I craft visuals for a Note or I pick photos from my phone. I try desperately to stay relevant. I write more prose—it’s the last bastion of sanity before my work day masses at the gates.

7:30 a.m.

I can’t live with the anticipation anymore. I’m supposed to log in at 8, but I do it earlier. Just to escape the anxiety of the looming work day. My hands shake a bit. I don’t know where to start or whether I’ll be pinged by my boss this early—most of the time, I am.

I agonize over my tasks for fifteen minutes. I ask Chat GPT to sort and prioritize my tasks for me. Not because I can’t do it myself. Well, actually… Because I can’t do it myself in this state. While at it, I ask it for reassurance. Some is better than none.

8:00 a.m.

I’m deep in the throes of thraldom. My anxiety loosened with repetition. My boss already bothered me, so what other calamity can befall me?

Turns out the world never runs out of ideas in this realm.

11:00 a.m.

My stomach cries agony. I eat lunch too early and on the corner of my desk as I keep working.

My monitor is too close to my eyes. The screen is blaring white against my retinas. My eyesight worsens every day. But capitalism doesn’t care about myopia. The cogs must keep on turning.

I pace a bit. That’s the only exercise I will get all day.

12:00 p.m.

I tell myself a break is necessary. At least, Chat GPT told me so.

I could take a walk, but it’s -20°C outside. It is out of the question.

So I refresh Substack again to gauge my relevance. It is still low.

I cave in. And I start working again at 12:40.

1:00 p.m. to 3:00 p.m.

A crippling fatigue leadens my bones. I am sluggish. I am in purgatory. Every hour is limbo. My creativity has been thinned dry by the morning. I am utterly useless. And all I do is glance at the time. I want the day to die a good death.

My boss tells me I need to design a quote by end of day. He asks me if I can stay late. I say no, but it doesn’t matter in the end.

Cortisol spikes.

I open Substack.

And then, I ask Chat GPT for reassurance.

4:00 p.m.

I’m waiting on my colleagues for the quote. In three hours, I will go to bed. I watch time narrow. I tell myself I won’t have time to make dinner, take a bath, wind down.

I am right.

4:45 p.m.

I finally get the material to make the quote. I work quickly. I’m quite efficient at work, which, incidentally, led to my burnout.

My jaw clenched, my shoulders up to my ears, I power through.

My cat meows for attention.

I ignore him.

5:30 p.m.

I am done with the quote. My boss asks for edits. There are always edits…

I gave up on making dinner, so I ordered overpriced takeout. I tipped my Uber Eats driver 20%—I know how shitty it is to work. I hope I made his day.

I eat on the corner of my desk.

I feel guilty for ordering junk food. Chat GPT justifies it as me being burnt out.

I believe it.

6:00 p.m.

I clock out.

I am restless. I still have mental energy, I still want to create to feel alive, but my body cannot keep up. I hate watching TV. I don’t read. I don’t scroll. My embroidery projects leer at me. I ignore them. I have this DIY book nook waiting for my clumsy hands on the kitchen table. I ignore it too. My knitting project, too, will rot away.

I open YouTube.

I click a documentary on the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald. I stop it when I’m 20 minutes in. I need to go to bed.

6:30 p.m.

I take a bath with bubble bath and Epsom salts. I scroll as the scalding water slowly cools. Yes, I was a liar. I do scroll… I watch other people work on Instagram. Their job seems more fulfilling than my own. They have 80k views and 1k comments—

I open Substack.

7:00 p.m.

I am utterly spent. My muscles scream with fatigue.

I pet my cat in bed. He settles on my flank as I press play on the Edmund Fitzgerald documentary.

I recount everything I couldn’t do at work today because of the impromptu quote. I will have to do them tomorrow.

Cortisol spikes.

My humidifier starts purring. My cat follows suit.

And as the ship sinks on my laptop monitor, I tell myself I wouldn’t need to work anymore if I drowned likewise.

I fall asleep on the dramatized screams.

11:00 p.m.

I startle awake. My cat is gone. The room is cold.

YouTube asks me if I’m still watching.

I close my laptop, then slide it under my pillow.

And I think about work.

I look at the time on my phone.

I calculate the number of hours I have left before work.

Cortisol spikes.