The Work

Work and rest – the same? I fear rest, empty hours, time without stucture. I work to consume rest, to use the day, the open, endless day, as fuel for the work. The dream: there is nothing left but work – or, better, work is the day aflame, with nothing to burn but itself. But the work would work me away, too, until it stood sufficient unto itself, the star, perfectly sufficient. But isn’t that to dream of another kind of repose? Of a kind of death, of a life sacrificed to the work that, in the end, does not need me?