Why does having fun feel like I'm wasting my life?

One afternoon a neighbor found me skipping stones by the river instead of working. "Hodja," he said, "is this how a wise man spends his morning?" I made my face very serious and said, "I am counting how many times a stone can refuse to sink. Watch — see how serious I look while I do it." Then I laughed and skipped another. You say "just for fun" the way a man admits he forgot his prayers. Small voice, quick apology, eyes down. Somewhere you learned that fun sits at the children's table while seriousness eats with the adults. Nobody handed you that rule in writing. You absorbed it from tired parents, busy teachers, a world that pays you for output and never for delight. But notice — the neighbor never once asked if the stones were enjoying themselves. Only whether I was wasting time. That is the whole trick of the hierarchy: it never asks what joy is for. It only asks what it costs.