My Job Became My Life. My Life Became My Hate.

On time for the bus.

The plane.

The train.

The car.

Listen to the daily banter.

Trump's burning it down.

No, he's building it up.

The basketball game from last night.

The murders from yesterday.

Gas prices.

Rent prices.

Who got cheated.

Who got rich.

Who got shot.

Who got famous for nothing.

Everybody talking.

Nobody listening.

Hit the door to the job.

I see Sally, whom I hate.

Brad with too much cologne.

Tevarius, who is my ace.

William, who somehow does no work but survives every round of layoffs like a corporate roach.

The shift begins.

Smile here.

Apologize there.

Fix this.

Carry that.

Pretend to care about another "team initiative" while your soul quietly files for separation.

Lunch comes fast.

Fast food, fast.

This funky 30-minute break that is really 15.

Five minutes to get there.

Ten minutes waiting on the order.

Five minutes back.

Damn.

Not fifteen.

Ten.

Ten minutes to inhale something barely qualifying as food before returning to labor like a rented machine.

James is running late.

Cheryl won't make it in.

I stayed to help the team.

Still got written up.

For the wrong order.

The wrong contract.

The wrong repair.

The wrong sale.

The wrong conversation.

Taking a long lunch break.

Sacrifice becomes expectation faster than gratitude ever arrives.

The boss barely knows my name, so in my head he stopped being "boss" a long time ago.

I sign the papers.

Finish the shift.

Eat fast food once more.

Go back home.

Again.

The dishes in the sink.

Clothes piled on the floor.

The house starting to stink.

Two garbage bags may be the source.

Or the chicken I never got to cook.

I throw clothes into the washer and sit down for "just a second."

Then the scroll begins.

Politics.

Memes.

Arguments.

Luxury vacations I can't afford.

Motivational speeches from people who somehow wake up at 4 a.m. with joy in their hearts.

Scroll.

Scroll.

Scroll.

Somewhere between exhaustion and distraction, I fall asleep on the couch.

I wake up to the sun.

Again.

I pull a wet shirt from the washer and stuff the rest into the dryer. Wash my face. Brush my teeth. Pull on yesterday's fatigue.

The sun will dry my shirt.

I hope.

On time for the bus.

The plane.

The train.

The car.

Listen to the daily banter.

Trump's burning it down.

No, he's building it up.

The basketball game.

The murders and deaths from last night.

Hit the door to the job.

Sally.

Brad.

Tevarius.

William.

Again.

The real danger is not the job itself.

Not even the exhaustion.

But repetition so constant it stops feeling temporary.

At some point, survival stops feeling like a season and starts feeling like identity.

You stop saying: "I work this job."

And quietly begin believing: "This is my life."

But maybe the job was never the full problem.

Maybe the deeper pain is realizing your entire existence has become organized around recovery.

Recovering from work.

Recovering from bills.

Recovering from stress.

Recovering from survival itself.

And recovery became life.

That's why weekends disappear so quickly.

They are not lived.

They are used.

Used to prepare for Monday.

Used to regain energy.

Used to escape for a few hours before the cycle begins again.

Wake.

Commute.

Work.

Consume.

Sleep.

Repeat.

And the terrifying part?

From the outside, this looks normal.

Responsible even.

But somewhere deep inside, a quiet voice keeps asking a dangerous question:

"When exactly did survival replace living?"

Because a life was never supposed to be only maintenance.

Maintenance of bills.

Maintenance of exhaustion.

Maintenance of appearances.

Maintenance of barely holding everything together long enough to do it all again tomorrow.

Maybe that doesn't require quitting your job tomorrow and running into the wilderness to "find yourself."

Maybe it starts smaller.

Cooking the chicken.

Cleaning the room completely.

Taking a walk without headphones.

Reading instead of scrolling.

Creating instead of consuming.

Calling somebody you love.

Remembering who you were before survival became your primary personality trait.

Because not every prison has bars.

Some have routines so consistent they slowly convince you that endurance and living are the same thing.

They are not.

On time for the bus.

The plane.

The train.

The car.

Listen to the daily banter.

Trump's burning it down.

No, he's building it up.

The basketball game from last night.

The murders from yesterday.

Gas prices.

Rent prices.

Who got cheated.

Who got rich.

Who got shot.

Who got famous for nothing.

Everybody talking.

Nobody listening.

Hit the door to the job.

Sally.

Brad.

Tevarius.

William.

Again.