Believe

Time to wake up.

The world that sells itself as real
feels like a meat grinder from the inside.
You watch it chew your days to gristle—
no wild forest,
no noble march of progress,
just fluorescent halls pretending to be evolution.

Something else. Something with teeth.
People lined up in rows of desks,
eyes blue‑lit,
conscious beings engineered and herded,
taking tickets, making small talk,
calling it a life.

You sit there—
destitute in spirit,
angry, ashamed,
resentful enough to hate your own kind
for how easily you become
an accessory to the machine,
half‑alive robot
refreshing your inbox for permission to exist.

You’ve met the sociopaths and narcissists,
the ones who drink their own reflection
like clean water
while the rest of you choke on doubt.
On good days, you fear you’re one of them.
On bad days, you know you’re their clerk.

But still, something in you remembers
that human beings were meant to weave threads,
to grab the live wire beyond the sky
and splice it into the heart,
to edit reality line by line.

Picture it: a chipped kitchen table,
a cooking sun that never quite reaches the room.
The microwave clock hits twelve
and rings like a small, dumb angel.

Every noon, every midnight
asks the same question:

Do you gather your courage,
or crawl back into the dark?
Do you die standing up,
or live flat on your back
while the world crawls over you
and calls it rest?

Sometimes you look up from the spreadsheet,
from the blinking cursor,
from the bill with its gentle threat,
and see it—the wondrous real:

sky too blue for algorithms,
a single star in the city haze,
the infinite ocean hiding
in a puddle by the bus stop,
in a reflection on your black phone screen.

In those moments remember:
you owe it awe.
You carry the responsibility to describe it,
because most people are too numb,
and you have run out of excuses.

Threadweaver, you whisper—
and realize you’re talking to yourself.

In this age of reset,
standing at the lip of the next great fall,
it will not be the bosses or the polished liars,
but the writer, the artist, the poet,
the loner hunched over a cheap notebook
in the last lit room,

who rises from the ash of burned‑out days,
shakes a fist at the closing horizon,
feels the grinder spinning overhead
and still, with a ruined throat,
with no audience guaranteed,
leans toward the window and says—

no more.