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Lost in the Hustle
Clock in, clock out
Wake, commute, work, sleep, repeat
They say I'm making a living
But where in this equation am I alive?
Traded my sunrise for spreadsheets
My sunset for status reports
My laughter for leader boards
My dreams for direct deposits
We're all running on this hamster wheel
Spinning faster just to stay in place
"Success" measured in square footage
And vacation days we're too exhausted to take
They sold us a promise:
Work hard now, live later
But later keeps getting pushed back
Like a horizon we never reach
When did we agree
That breathing means producing?
That existing means earning?
That value equals output?
My grandmother's hands knew real work
Soil under fingernails, calluses with purpose
She worked to live
I live to work
The system whispers:
"Just one more promotion"
"Just one more year"
"Just one more sacrifice"
While life slips through fingers
Clutching paychecks
Making a living
What a curious phrase
As if living itself
Is something manufactured
Something we must earn the right to do
I want to make a life instead
Rich with moments that don't fit on resumes
Abundant with connections no algorithm can track
Wealthy with experiences no bank can hold
Because making a living
Without actually living
Is the most expensive purchase
We never meant to make.
Copyright ©
Christen Foster
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