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Quiet is a Mirror


It was 3:17 PM when I realized I wasn’t tired—I was just bored.

I had no one to blame. Not the deadlines. Not the caffeine crash. Not even the algorithm. Just me. Sitting there. Staring at a blinking cursor that wasn’t judging me, but it also wasn’t applauding. It just blinked. Patiently. Indifferently. Like it knew I’d try to run.

So I did what I always do. Opened another tab. Made another cup of coffee I didn’t want. Pretended I needed to check something. I scrolled. I organized files I’d never open again. I looked productive. But all I was really doing was hiding—from a silence I had no excuse not to face.

I used to think the opposite of burnout was inspiration. That if I could just land on the right idea, feel that electric pull toward something meaningful, I’d be okay. I didn’t realize I was skipping the part where nothing happens. The quiet middle. The unsponsored, unposted moment where you have to sit in your own skin without any applause for existing.

Burnout, at least, makes me feel useful. Boredom just makes me feel... seen. And not the kind of seen that flatters. The kind that strips. Because when you’re bored, you can’t pretend you’re busy being someone better. You’re just here. And suddenly all the thoughts you’ve been dodging show up like guests you forgot you invited.

Who am I when I’m not being useful to anyone?

What’s left when I’m not grinding toward something?

And do I even like the person who shows up in the quiet?

It’s funny. I can spend weeks running on empty and still feel more comfortable than I do in ten minutes of peace. Because burnout gives me an alibi. Stillness asks for my presence.

Sometimes I wonder if we’ve mistaken exhaustion for depth. As if being tired all the time makes our lives more meaningful. But maybe it’s just a very expensive way to avoid having to grow. When you’re busy, you don’t have to question anything. You just survive.

But boredom... that’s where the questions begin. The ones you can’t outsource or medicate or post about for clout. The ones that leave you raw and slightly embarrassed at how much of yourself you’ve abandoned in the name of being impressive.

Maybe that’s why we fill our lives with noise. Because silence might not scream—but it reveals.

And maybe—just maybe—the blinking cursor isn’t mocking me.
Maybe it’s inviting me.
To write something that doesn’t try so hard to matter.
To rest without having to earn it.
To admit that being alive isn’t a performance I have to rehearse.

So no. The opposite of burnout isn’t brilliance.
It’s boredom.

And boredom, if you let it, might just be your soul trying to come home.

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