Rat Race

I woke today and realized I have been building a house inside a machine. The walls are made of unanswered emails, the floors—worn thin from pacing between what I owe and what I’ve lost. Every morning I oil the gears with my silence, let the conveyor belt of expectations pull me through another day of assembling a life that isn’t mine. I saw my face in the bathroom mirror at 3:17 PM— a stranger with my eyes, hollowed out by fluorescent lights and the weight of pretending this is what living looks like. They call it "work" but I know it by its real name: a slow excavation of the soul, shoveling myself into piles labeled efficient professional disposable. One day I will stop and the machine won’t notice. The gears will keep turning, the productivity reports will bloom without me, and I will stand in the parking lot feeling the sun on my skin for the first time in years— terrified and alive. The tragedy isn’t leaving. It’s how long I believed the cage was a home.