The Ghost in the Machine

The fluorescent lights hummed my funeral dirge,

a low, electric drone for the parts of me that died here,

one spreadsheet at a time.

They bought my hands for the keyboard’s click,

my eyes for the screen’s flat, blue glare,

my voice for the cheerful, hollow ring of “How can I help?”

They didn’t want the rest.

The part that dreamt of wet soil and thunderstorms,

the part that bled when a song was too beautiful.

So I learned to leave it at home,

packed away like a lunch I’d never have time to eat.

My spine became a question mark,

curved to the shape of my ergonomic chair.

My blood ran on stale coffee and quiet desperation,

a bitter, lukewarm stream.

They called it dedication, this slow erasure,

this hollowing out of a soul to make room for company policy.

I was a good ghost, a reliable phantom.

I haunted my own desk,

never late, never sick,

just fading.

A little more transparent each year,

until the only thing solid about me

was the deadline.

And then, one Tuesday, at 3:17 PM,

a sunbeam cut through the blinds,

and for a single, stupid second,

it lit the dust motes dancing in the stale, recycled air.

They spun like tiny, golden galaxies,

wild and chaotic and utterly free.

And I remembered.

I remembered I was a body, not just a headcount,

a collection of cells that craved sunlight

and wind

and the simple, shocking anarchy

of a sky with no ceiling.

I didn’t quit. I didn’t scream.

The rebellion was quieter than that.

I bought a small, illegal plant for my desk,

a stubborn succulent that had no business surviving here.

I started taking my full lunch break,

sitting on a park bench,

eating an apple so slowly it was an act of worship.

I closed my laptop at five.

Not 5:01. Not 5:05.

Five.

And I walked away, leaving the ghost to his work.

They still own my hands from nine to five,

but the rest of me is staging a quiet mutiny.

I am smuggling daylight into my bloodstream,

I am memorizing the architecture of clouds on my walk home,

I am learning the gospel of an evening with no emails.

They bought themselves an employee,

reliable and efficient.

But they don't know.

They don't know that every day,

a little more of the person I forgot

shows up for work instead.