The acoustics of the after-hours
I lay on my hammock, under the dark sky on my urban balcony. It could have been the end of a perfect day. It could have, if it weren't for the light from the laptop screen with my code editor open — recently, I started using white themes because they help me stay awake. What a workaholic.
This was about to be a cathartic rambling — I think you call it a rant nowadays — about the reasons for unpaid after-hours work. But my brain can no longer type one function away, let alone write about how much of the world economy is run on after-hours unpaid work done by developed monkeys who believe their purpose in life is to do that job. But I won't go there for today — I can't; I'm too tired.
Instead, I wanted to reflect on the acoustics of the after-hours.
I wonder if this is just an empirical observation, an outlier created by the author who wants to believe so much in his hypothesis that he is afraid to test it out. But have you noticed how different they sound? Even in the most crowded places, in a city that never sleeps, or in the deepest Siberian forest, after hours, that little piece of precious time where you are allowed to actually enjoy your time, they sound different.
UNESCO says that "heritage is our legacy from the past, what we live with today, and what we pass on to future generations." Sure, we know you are busy saving a lot of stuff. But if you keep allowing Slack, Teams, email, calendar apps, and to-do lists to destroy the acoustics of the after-hours, maybe there won't be any other heritage to preserve; everyone would be busy working for free because they are what their job title says.