Purpose, they say, a shiny chrome god worshipped with spreadsheets and sunrise affirmations.
Like nailing jelly to the existential wall. Define yourself, they chirp, as if I am not already defined by the overflowing inbox of information since birth and the phantom limb of past anxiety.
Peace of mind, you say? A unicorn riding a tax audit. A shimmering oasis populated by deadlines and the gnawing suspicion that I am folding fitted sheets wrong.
Purpose? Perhaps to catalogue dust bunnies under a fluorescent moon. Or maybe, just maybe, to master the art of staring blankly at motivational posters, until they burst into flames of lukewarm contentment.
And peace of mind? Oh, that is just the static between stations, a phantom signal we keep chasing in a broken radio. Turn it off. Maybe the quiet is the point. No, probably not. But maybe.