Why are we exhausted and delulu at the same time?

 Or, differently put: delulu coping in the post-Covid era

There’s something deeply ironic about the sight of it.
People with dark circles like 14th-century manuscripts.
Coffee not drunk for pleasure, but for life extension.
Sleep in small, poorly made portions.
Bodies tired like books left open in the rain, then placed back on the shelf as if it doesn’t show.

And at the same time, statements like:
“This is my year.”
“The universe owes me.”
“Getting there.”
We don’t say them ironically. We believe them.

Welcome to the era of exhausted delusion.
Exhaustion no longer wears pajamas. It wears a vision board.
It doesn’t say “I can’t take it anymore.”
It says “manifesting abundance.”
It doesn’t admit decay. It rebrands it.

People don’t collapse spectacularly.
They don’t shatter.
They melt quietly.
And to endure the melting, they build small palaces of imagination.
Not out of madness, but out of necessity.

Because after Covid, we didn’t return to normal as normal people.
We returned carrying an invisible weight.
With the sense that we lost time, resilience, meaning, yet were still expected to function as if nothing had happened.
We were told “it’s over,” but no one showed us how to restart.

So instead of grief, we chose optimism.
Instead of processing, productivity.
Instead of “I’m not okay,” a tidy “everything happens for a reason.”

When you work constantly, fail politely, try the right way, do “everything you’re supposed to do,” and still remain stuck, then something inside you has to explain why.
Not with logic.
With narrative.

And that’s where the two options appear:

Either you admit the system is a well-tuned joke at your expense,

or

You believe you’re the chosen one who simply hasn’t been recognized yet.

The second option is far more psychologically restful.
And far more functional.
It doesn’t require rupture.
Only imagination.

That’s how the modern delulu person was born.
Not stupid.
Not shallow.
Just desperate, with good taste and an inner monologue whispering, “hold on a little longer.”

That’s why we read Camus and say “life has no meaning,” but still expect a sign from the universe by Friday.
That’s why we declare ourselves exhausted, yet keep fantasizing about a future version of ourselves who “made it.”
Not because we’re naive.
But because without that version, post-Covid reality would be unbearably bare.

And here’s the plot twist.
The most delulu people aren’t the most unhinged.
They’re the most exhausted.

Delusion isn’t a denial of reality.
It’s a survival mechanism.
A thin, elegantly bound layer between “I can’t take this anymore” and “I keep going.”

And maybe that’s the most human part of the whole story.

Not the dream.
Not the fatigue.
But the fact that, while we’re ready to fall, we insist on believing that somewhere, someday, something will make sense.

In theory, this is called cognitive dissonance.
In practice, I’d call it hope with dark circles.

We don’t hope because we’re strong.
We hope because we’re tired.

And somewhere between “I’m holding on” and “I can’t do this anymore,”
we rename survival as vision,
so we don’t have to admit how badly reality broke us.

🖤 zerofack$: We’re not delulu because we dream.
We’re delulu because if we saw reality clearly, we wouldn’t even get out of bed.

ps for Anna