The word “recreation” itself means, if you follow the etymological bread crumbs, “create again.” If we go on, without rest — the word whispers — we slowly become whittled down versions of ourselves. Uncreated. It may be that we even, slowly, shirk off our usness, de-creating the very dirt and breath that makes us human. Other things begin to happen, as well, our smiles are cut away as joy is deemed useless by our own cruel inner clicking accountants. And because, in this way, none of us are ‘built different.’ We, needing to stop, but not seeing its efficiency, risk reducing rest to brief escapes — the insides of a pill or the false halo of a flat screen’s blue light. And as we stack coins or likes or accolades or replies or sales or shares we heap up things that hide us from ourselves. We may even become smaller, gollum-like, cravenly fusing to the soul-stunting object of our over-desire, a soul contortionist bending our bones and breath to fit neatly within the cells of a spreadsheet, or whatever else.