Deux ex machina
Dr. Jonathan,
My name is Arthur, and I do not agree with the superstition called “educational research.”
I should clarify this early, because many people could get confused. This is not dysfunction; it is refinement.
I work as an editor in a newspaper and as a writer, but I do not write every day. In fact, I let the pressure accumulate. I allow the anxiety to ferment. And when the deadline is close enough to threaten my dignity, I sit down and produce something disturbingly good.
According to educational research—which I skimmed a few minutes before writing this to you—this behavior is considered “poor self-regulation.” Apparently, functional adults are supposed to distribute effort evenly, structure their environment, evaluate themselves calmly, and reward small progress. Isn’t this adorable?
The same literature claims that excessive self-evaluation without healthy self-consequences leads to burnout. That learners should stop before exhaustion, so effort can be capped and rest scheduled.
You see, my process is elegant: avoiding the task entirely while thinking about it obsessively. This produces a low, persistent guilt—nothing dramatic, just enough to keep the system pressurized.
Eventually, panic arrives. Deus ex machina. At this point, something divine happens. Focus sharpens, and ideas connect effortlessly.
Between projects, I feel strangely empty. Not unhappy—just offline. As if I only fully exist when I am being urgently useful.
There is a particular exhaustion that comes from living exclusively at the extremes: either brilliant or inert. Educational psychologists might call this “unsustainable intensity,” but I call it Memento Mori (Latin makes me sound intellectual even when I do not know what I am saying). Sometimes, I interpret the void as proof that I am not yet good enough, which is ironic, considering the outcomes.
There is something poetic about being tragically gifted and slightly misunderstood by time-management strategies. There are people I love—people who do not care how impressive my last-minute work is, people who would prefer my presence over my productivity.
But this is the burden of genius, right?
The research insists that learning improves when effort is regulated rather than heroic. That the things I do are actually things I do, not things I am—and that I should treat them as such: study them, examine what worked, what didn’t, and why. That stopping while still energized prevents burnout. That excellence is sustained by balance and fixed, healthy limits.
It is also deeply offensive.
Because if I accept this, I must admit something terrifying:
that I am not special for suffering.
that exhaustion is not evidence of greatness.
And we are not ready for that: Me and the rest of the world.
Sincerely,
Arthur
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