L'Épuisement de l'Égo

Lyrics

The year is 1998.
The room smells of disinfectant and warm chocolate chips.
The subject is seated.
A baseline is established.

Roy Baumeister watches from behind the one-way glass.
Dianne Tice is taking notes.
On the table before you, two white plates.
One holds a promise, still soft from the oven, its heat a small engine in the sterile air.
The other holds a penance.
A small, red, earthy radish.
The instructions are simple.
You may eat from this plate.
But not the other.

The active self is a limited resource.
A muscle that tears with each small refusal.
Every decision is a withdrawal from a finite account.
By evening, the balance is zero.
This is the exhaustion of the ego.
L'épuisement de l'égo.

The subject chooses virtue.
The hand bypasses the cookie.
Reaches for the radish.
The sharp, clean snap between the teeth.
The ghost of sweetness lingers, a question in the air.
A small victory has been recorded.
A cost has been incurred, but not yet invoiced.

The active self is a limited resource.
A muscle that tears with each small refusal.
Every decision is a withdrawal from a finite account.
By evening, the balance is zero.
This is the exhaustion of the ego.
L'épuisement de l'égo.

Then comes the second task.
An unsolvable geometric puzzle.
Lines that refuse to meet. A quiet, paper lie.
The ones who ate the cookies, they persist.
But the virtuous, the radish-eaters…
their pencils drop so much sooner.
Their persistence was spent on that first, simple choice.

So you say no to the argument.
You finish the difficult report.
You ignore the ringing phone.
And you wonder why, at nine p.m.,
you cannot resist the smallest, most foolish thing.
The muscle is torn.
The account is closed for the day.
Perhaps a glucose drink will help.
Temporarily.