I have done innumerable sacrilege before, and I did all of them without batting a single eyelash. I was unrepentant, devoid of guilt, indifferent. I thought that my enormity will extend infinitely, until today. When I agreed to work today, I thought it was a good idea, of earning an amount enough to buy a crisp-looking, elegant white shirt or to pay for a dinner-for-two in a decent restaurant. Until I realized that I have lost all regard, or better yet, respect, for the supernatural who asked this day be reserved for rest and quiet contemplation, which places me in the same league as your common thief, blasphemer, seducer of his neighbor’s wife, and man slaughterer. But more importantly, I have desecrated my own body, given up all respect left for time and time for rest by working on a rainy Sunday morning.
By working I become free (note the chilly Nazi-esque sound of it). And indeed I have become free, but by freeing myself from my parents’ clasps, I have allowed myself to be perpetually imprisoned, because I have chosen (?) to, by work. There’s a whole bunch of very bitter irony in the idea of choice or, more comprehensively, freedom, modern society makes us think we have. We do not really have a choice because the entire exercise is structured in a way that we’d eventually end up choosing what it has all along wanted us to choose, giving us a false feeling that that this was reached with the employ of free will. Free will is an abstraction that only exists in some yet-to-be-discovered utopia.
If a man, wiser than any of us, chooses to turn his back on work all these worldly comforts and conveniences, how do you think will he be judged by the rest of us? Exalt him because of his unbounded sagacity? Definitely not. Daft, we’d say.