An industrialized nation tends to idolize hard work for its own sake. Such is the inevitable result of man becoming machine. It doesn’t matter what end one works toward. One is respectable so long as one works most all of the time. Anything less can be grounds for social ostracism. Rest and relaxation belongs to those who are old and tired, when life has already passed us by. We sleep when we’re dead.
The fact is, hard workers don’t really work. They’re essentially lazy. They seek an easy state of oblivion, just like any alcoholic. Being overwhelmed all the time is a mere contrivance that conveniently absolves them of responsibility over themselves.
The weakest of people often do best under repression and pressure that would cause a more grounded person to snap. A lazy spirited person
craves another power to provide the structure they won’t provide for themselves.
Those who lack driving purpose and will are those most willing to be subsumed into endless purposeless activity.
The test of a real worker: If no one is there to tell them what to do, do they still work? Do they know what work should be done? Are they capable of great effort without ultimatums and deadlines to drive them on? Or is there a yawning emptiness and lack of direction in the absence of coercion and instruction?
Though lazy, the hard workers are not harmless. They lack the ability to question a corrupt orthodoxy even as their accepted order crumbles all around them. Their pointless strivings are like a relentless, merciless metronome, setting the pace by which all others must live.