Idleness resembles not the devil, nor does she find our hands to be a vast playground. Such things conjure robust and fantastic imagery and idleness does not lay claim to these things.
Idleness is a steaming cup of coffee, a promising instrument of production and a beacon of rejuvenation that instead lingers over a flick through the paper, a page turn in a novel.
We do not seek idleness; rather she seeks us out in the breath of our adamant protest. We find ourselves deserving of solitude and relaxation and we openly proclaim this, yet to confess idleness is to admit to sin.
We are acutely aware of her presence and her careful place next to the last cookie in the jar.
To be idle is to challenge the essence of the country’s origin story; an empire founded upon protestant principles that sits atop the hunched back of productivity; to be idle is to worship idolatry in a monotheistic land.