On feeling exhausted and the search for the essential

Autumn, with its fine rain and the falling of leaves, has become one of my favorite seasons to write, and also to "turn inward," to reflect on the countless events that have transpired over the year and refocus as the final stretch approaches. I revisit unfinished readings, attempting to decipher my own annotations in the margins—reflections and ideas stirred by the words I had read. Perhaps it is because autumn feels like "nature's announced death," following the exuberant beauty of spring, or perhaps because it is the season of harvest, after the warm, honeyed summer of bees and flowers, that I return most to silence and the search for what is essential to me during this time of year.

My inner searches are often accompanied by rereading, examining, or contemplating the works of other writers, poets, philosophers, or photographers, whose projects seem to wander in search of what is essential—what remains once everything else has faded away. Curiously, these explorations are almost always revealed in black and white.

I am particularly drawn to works that, in some way, focus on unraveling what we remember and what we forget, an emotional and perhaps spiritual quest that seems to address the question: What is left when all else disappears? What does each person consider essential, giving meaning and purpose to their life?

When one reaches a certain age—as I have now passed fifty—that question of what is essential becomes ever more pressing. Perhaps it is because time undeniably feels shorter, it passes more quickly, and there is a deep sense that one cannot grasp everything, cannot explore all the possibilities. And one must, at last, come to terms with the fact that certain paths must be abandoned—but which ones?

I found myself deep in these reflections last weekend, while traveling by train. A young student, whose name I did not ask, sat beside me during a short journey of just over two hours. Our conversation, revolving around the profound exhaustion she felt from her studies and life in general, led me to revisit two readings: The Burnout Society (2012) by philosopher Byung-Chul Han and Black Zodiac by poet Charles Wright. The young woman was traveling to Madrid after spending the weekend in her hometown, a small provincial city where, as she put it, life was much quieter—although she hadn't thought so while living there.

The first word that caught my attention in our conversation was “exhaustion,” followed by “it never seems enough,” and then, in quick succession, came others with which I’ve grown quite familiar in conversations with young people: “boredom,” “anxiety,” “mental health struggles,” “stress,” “pressure.” With tired eyes, she also spoke of nights in the capital, the clubs, “the parties,” and then she uttered a phrase that made me reflect on my own student days, now so distant: “You had it easier back then—everything was much simpler.”

I am not sure how old she was—perhaps not yet twenty, or if she was, she couldn’t have turned it long ago. I also forgot to ask what she was studying. After all, I imagine that any field of study these days brings with it the need for perfection in grades, alongside the stress of futures that have not yet come to be.

Once she disembarked at her stop, I found myself even more thoughtful. I tried to recall myself at her age. It is increasingly difficult to remember certain distant stages, like my time as a university student. But was I as tired of life back then?

Lacking clear memories of my own, I turned to my tablet, sifting through my digital books, and lost myself in the notes written in the margins of others' works.

Philosopher Byung-Chul Han describes this phenomenon in his book The Burnout Society (2012), where he analyzes how the excess of demands and the self-exploitation characteristic of our era affects our capacity to rest, both physically and mentally. What is intriguing is that this exhaustion does not arise solely from an overload of work, but from the need to multitask constantly. Multitasking has become the norm, and it seems we have moved away from the sequentiality of completing one task before moving on to the next. In the past, decisions were simpler: you would start a task, finish it, and then proceed to the next. Nowadays, everything is done in parallel, as if we must perform at our best across all areas of life simultaneously. However, this approach comes at a high cost to our mental health.

Byung-Chul Han also notes that, in our efficiency-obsessed culture, the result is an increase in internal pressure to achieve perfect outcomes. The problem lies not only in the quantity of tasks we undertake but also in the constant comparison with others. We are faced with a culture of “demonstration,” where everything we do is subject to external judgment. This exacerbates anxiety, particularly in more developed societies, where self-demanding behavior and perfectionism are regarded as virtues. Conversely, Han observes that in cultures less focused on self-exploitation and performance, the rates of anxiety are significantly lower. The desire to prove oneself and excel in all endeavors has generated a culture of burnout, where self-expectation becomes the norm. We force ourselves to be efficient in every aspect of life, from work to personal relationships, leading us to a state of constant weariness.

In summary, Byung-Chul Han describes a contemporary culture marked by hyper-productivity, constant performance, and self-exploitation, where individuals become their own oppressors, burdened by the need for self-optimization and success. This state of exhaustion is deeply intertwined with feelings of emptiness, alienation, and a lack of purpose.

So this is where we find ourselves, but we are not unique; many before us, throughout history, have felt similarly. How did they resolve it?

To begin the search for answers to that question, I prefer to distance myself from technical manuals by psychologists and psychiatrists, and above all, I shy away from self-help books that promise solutions based on hypothetical cases presented along the lines of “the hero's journey,” so often used in motivational talks and movie scripts.

To be honest, I prefer to “read,” “listen,” or “observe” those who do not attempt to tell us how to do things; they merely share their thoughts and the reflections that these situations evoke in them, expressing themselves without the need to advise us or dictate how we should act. Thus, while scrolling through my many saved online books, I skimmed through my notes in Man's Search for Meaning (1946) by Viktor Frankl, or the highlighted reflections in The Plague (1947), a novel by Albert Camus, which addresses existential themes such as suffering, death, and solidarity in difficult times. These works emphasize the importance of finding meaning through action and resilience.

But eventually, I stopped at a few excerpts from “Apologia Pro Vita Sua” from the poetry collection Black Zodiac (1997) by poet Charles Wright, which, in my view, reflect that search for the essential amidst the passage of time, what remains when everything else has faded… the passage of time and the way experiences settle in memory. I believe the poem is a meditation on what truly endures in life, what persists amid constant change…

“What do we find at the center of ourselves?

Our lives have been nothing but a means to an end,

and that end is the means to another end.”

“We are all movements made of movements,

the multitude, the restless dust of what oncewas a star.

And although we are incomplete,

we move with the hope of perfection,

of some essential destiny,

as the seasons pass.”

“What we love is made of time,

what we remember turns to dust;

we are ghosts in the landscape,and when we leave,

what remains behind is what we began.”

The conversation with the young woman on the train left me with more questions than answers. Fatigue, the pursuit of perfection, and the feeling of always chasing something unattainable are part of the realities we live with today. However, upon rereading poets like Charles Wright and reflecting on works such as Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl, The Myth of Sisyphus, or The Plague by Albert Camus, I realize that amid exhaustion and uncertainty, there is space to find the essential, that which endures. Perhaps the answer lies not in achieving more or in doing everything perfectly, but in returning to silence, to the simplicity of what we love, to that which remains when everything else disappears. Maybe, as Wright says, our lives are merely a “movement made of movements,” but in that ebb and flow, we can find small moments of fulfillment. And it is in those moments that each of us can discover our own answers, our own way of giving meaning to what truly matters.

Before I finish, I remind myself—and perhaps you, dear reader—that “what we love is made of time,” and that is a treasure we have only in limited supply…