ALWAYS ON — CU
823 Words
The first adjustments are small.
They begin as corrections, not sacrifices.
Those who have drifted do not think of themselves as marginalized. That word feels dramatic, inaccurate. They are still employed. Still contacted. Still present in records and schedules.
They simply feel… behind.
So they adapt.
A colleague who once replied slowly starts answering messages immediately, even when unsure. Responses become shorter, less precise. Questions are deferred. Clarifications avoided.
Speed replaces accuracy.
The system registers improvement.
At home, another individual begins sleeping with their device closer, waking to notifications before alarms. They stop silencing alerts during meals. Conversations are shortened mid-sentence when a vibration interrupts.
Apologies are offered reflexively.
“Sorry—just saw this.”
“Was away for a moment.”
“Back now.”
Each apology tightens the loop.
None of these changes are demanded. No warning preceded them. The individuals make the adjustments themselves, guided by a growing sense that something must be corrected.
They do not articulate what.
They just know the rhythm is wrong.
A friend who has been receiving fewer invitations starts accepting every one that comes, regardless of timing or convenience. They arrive early. They stay late. They volunteer for follow-ups no one assigned.
They laugh more than necessary. They nod often.
Their presence becomes dense, concentrated, unmistakable.
This is read as engagement.
It helps.
But it is exhausting.
Another person begins restructuring their day to eliminate gaps. Breaks are removed. Transitions compressed. Meals eaten while moving. Exercise reduced to metrics-friendly bursts rather than sustained rest.
The body protests quietly at first—stiffness, shallow fatigue, restless sleep.
These signals are interpreted as inefficiency.
They adjust again.
At work, someone who was once thoughtful and slow stops offering long-form insights. They submit drafts faster, rougher. When feedback arrives, they respond instantly, even if the changes are unclear.
They no longer ask whether the work is right.
They ask whether it is on time.
Performance reviews improve marginally. Comments note increased responsiveness, better alignment, smoother collaboration.
No mention is made of quality loss.
Quality is harder to quantify.
The individuals feel relief when signs of reintegration appear. Messages arrive sooner. Mentions increase. Their names surface again in planning threads.
The system does not confirm success.
But the silence feels less heavy.
Still, the adjustments intensify.
Because the standard keeps moving.
Once back in rhythm, maintaining it becomes the new task. A missed response now feels dangerous—not because of consequences, but because of memory. They know how quickly distance forms.
They have felt the edge.
They do not want to return.
One person begins monitoring their own behavior obsessively. They track response times, presence indicators, activity streaks. They compare themselves to others, noting who replies faster, who appears more continuous.
The comparisons are never shared.
They are private, relentless.
When a delay occurs—an hour offline, an evening without output—the person compensates the next day with overactivity. Extra messages. Extra updates. Proof of life.
The system absorbs this seamlessly.
Burnout is not flagged. Variance remains acceptable.
Socially, the changes are visible but unspoken. Those who struggled to keep pace become sharper, quicker, more available.
They are welcomed back—not warmly, but functionally.
They are included again.
But something in them has thinned.
Conversations with them feel flatter. Safer. Less surprising. They interrupt themselves more. They hesitate to drift.
They have learned that drift costs.
In private moments, some of them feel a dull ache—not pain exactly, but loss of texture. Time feels smoother, faster, less distinct.
Days blur.
They tell themselves this is maturity. Professionalism. Growth.
Others do not question it.
Why would they?
The adjustments appear voluntary. Even admirable.
One evening, a person who has recently “recovered” from drifting considers disconnecting entirely for a few hours. The idea surfaces unexpectedly, triggered by exhaustion.
They imagine silence. No metrics. No continuity.
The thought is immediately followed by calculation.
What would need to be undone afterward?
How long would it take to regain alignment?
What subtle costs would follow?
The answer is unclear.
That makes the risk unacceptable.
The person stays connected.
They tell themselves it is temporary. Just until things stabilize.
Stability, however, now requires effort.
Those who cannot sustain the adjustments begin to fade again, more quietly this time. Their attempts were visible. Their retreat is not.
They do not announce failure. They simply stop trying to match the pace. The effort becomes too painful, too consuming.
They drift a second time—faster, farther.
This time, reintegration is harder.
The center has moved on.
Those who remain learn an unspoken lesson: alignment is not a state. It is a process.
A continuous one.
In this world, falling behind is not a moral failure.
But catching up requires self-erasure in increments small enough to justify.
Always on does not punish deviation.
It rewards adaptation.
And adaptation, when done long enough, leaves marks that no metric tracks.
- Writer
