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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Wake. Commute. Work. Repeat. They call this living? I call it the hamster wheel— spinning faster each year while the cage only shrinks. Three jobs to afford one roof. Two hours of daylight between shifts. One life slipping through fingers calloused from climbing ladders that only lead to more ladders. We've normalized exhaustion, wear our burnout like medals of honor. "Busy" is our battle cry. Our worth measured in productivity units, our time sold at wholesale prices. We scroll through highlight reels of lives we're too tired to pursue, while notifications remind us there's always more to want, always more to owe. They say "Rise and grind" But never ask what's being ground down. It's us. Our dreams. Our wonder. Our capacity to stare at stars without calculating their worth. When did we accept that breathing was enough to call it living? When did we decide that survival was something we should be grateful for? I want more than to exist in the margins of my own life— stealing moments between obligations, budgeting minutes like loose change. Living is not this endless math of hours versus dollars. Living is not this constant fear that one misstep, one illness, one market crash could erase everything. To merely survive is to be haunted by the ghost of the life you might have lived if you weren't always running out of time, running out of energy, running out of hope. We were meant for more than this— More than automated responses. More than weekend recoveries. More than counting down days until we're free, at last, too old to use that freedom. So tell me, when do we stop surviving and start living? When do we reclaim our heartbeats from the timeclocks? When do we refuse to measure our worth by our economic output? Because I am not a machine designed for consumption and production. I am flesh and blood and wonder. And I want my life back. I want all of our lives back. This existence of barely making it— it's not life. It's a sentence. And I'm demanding a pardon. Right now. Today. Before the next alarm. Before the next bill. Before the next "I'll live later." Because later keeps getting later, until later becomes never. And I refuse to call my one wild existence a mere survival story.
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