Art and leisure can feel exhausting as an adult

Still from a scene in ‘My Dinner with Andre.’ Image via New Yorker Films.

My days typically begin at six in the morning, being woken up by the not so pleasant sound of my alarm going off. I procrastinate for a bit, usually with a ten-minute doomscroll on TikTok. Once I’ve had my early morning fill of junk internet content, I get up. I then get ready for a day that’ll mostly constitute sitting behind a desk, typing on a laptop, making and taking calls, poring over papers, and running work-related errands. The day usually ends at half past five in the afternoon, broken only by lunch in between and the mid-morning and mid-afternoon snacks — two hard boiled eggs or a peanut butter sandwich, and maybe some fruit. My days are much the same from Mondays to Saturdays. Some days are busier than others, some are slow. The longing for the one day off, Sunday, persists throughout the days preceding.

One of among many of adulthood’s hard truths is that stability comes with a price. You pay not only with currency but with your hours, hours that could instead be spent in creative exploration and leisurely activity alone or with friends. Such is more or less the way of the world. I bring this up not to rant but to try to intellectualize some recurring feelings of existential dread. Many of such feelings involve a nostalgia for versions of myself that could have been but never materialized. In one of the more realistic of these imagined iterations, I work in writing and publication. Among one of the more fanciful, I front a band whose sound clearly echoes ’80s post-punk stylistics. Think along the lines of Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Go-Go’s, The Bangles, The B-52s, and Blondie — just a curious amalgamation of all of them. It’s amusing how, as a child, I thought the latter a pragmatic goal in spite of my clear lack of musical talent and my very slim chances of attaining rockstar fame even if the case were that I possessed musical aptitude. Such just shows the level of whimsy children are allowed and even encouraged to have. What is more, it is interesting how such whimsy is chipped off bit by bit as children grow older and near adulthood. By adulthood, we are almost wholly devoid of the sense of fancifulness that made childhood so grand of a time.

The trajectory of life is rather amusing in a somewhat tragic sort of way. I mean not to complain. I simply wish to state an observation. Once we are done with childhood and all the fun and passions that go with it, we are expected to go the humdrum route of seeking and maintaining stable employment. It then matters little if the work we find is fulfilling because, in this stage of life, survival is the name of the game. Survival becomes so essential to our lives that we lose sight of the passions and interests that were once so central to us.

For the lucky, employment affords them a decent life that allows time for a couple of hobbies and travel in between. This is all we are offered and we ought to take it and be grateful, no questions asked. The tragedy — a dramatic word choice, I know — is that the things that truly engage us are relegated as things we do during the very little free time we have. Literature, film, and music — the arts at large — are treated as frivolities. Entirely entertaining, yes, but inessential. And because most of our time in adulthood is dedicated to surviving and making a living, partaking in the arts requires a diligent effort. The trouble here is that said effort cannot be so easily given. People are tired — worn-out from the constant mental and physical demands of employment.

For much of my childhood, I was encouraged to read. While toy purchases came with a strict budget, books were more generously supplied. I was motivated to read popular children’s book series and age-appropriate novels. My parents relished in the fact that, at age eleven, I picked out The Count of Monte Cristo — a classic — as a book to read for leisure. I finished it in four days, albeit not fully appreciating the story — reading it with a child’s mind, after all. I’d had the luxury of time then. At present, I might just have a much better appreciation for Alexandre Dumas’s writing. These days, the matter of concern in my leisure reading is not so much a lack of reading comprehension but more so a lack of focus, energy, and free time. And try as I might to dedicate my one day off to reading, I find myself struggling to find the mental fortitude to dedicate a mere hour to uninterrupted reading.

Beyond the social expectation to commit to productivity, the exercise to engage with art in all forms is hindered — heavily — by the distraction somewhat forced upon us all by instant gratification media and short form internet content. Instead of reading books and other forms of written material before bed — for example, we opt instead to mindlessly scroll on TikTok and other social media. Even films and television shows now struggle to take our full attention. These days, watching medium to long form visual media is rarely ever done without viewers sporadically checking their phones for a social media notification. Such sporadic phone-checking is even done sans notification. Viewers now struggle to wholly commit full attention to however long it takes to finish a film or television show. Reels and TikTok videos require much less commitment, time, and mental energy. As such, they are more easily digestible. They offer mindless entertainment for the tired office worker.

Partaking in the world as an adult necessitates prioritizing survival. This involves maintaining employment throughout the majority of one’s life. While I agree that productivity is highly commendable, the degree to which society requires it is rather tragic. Art and leisure make life worthwhile. And the sad reality is that they are often treated as mere frivolities that should not distract from productivity.