Is it Real?

Another alarm yanks me from my dream state into the crisp, cold air of a winter morning.

Suddenly, all my senses snap to life at once. I wince at the thought of pulling back the covers, allowing the chill to caress my body, still warm from sleep. Another day. Another trip to the slave trade—where I am the slave. Shackled not by iron chains, but by failing technology, mundane co-workers, and forgetful employers steering their business like a rocking boat on a turbulent pond.

I ask myself:

Is it worth the effort to raise my head and lift this tired body from the only haven I have—this mattress, these sheets, this fragile sanctuary of sanity?

But I surrender. My body, already on autopilot, begins the same sequence of motions it has memorized from a thousand mornings before.

I stumble to the bathroom in the dark, racing through the usual ablutions. When I return, the clock by my bed mocks me. Somehow, between getting up and leaving the bathroom, time has stolen a handful of precious minutes. Again.

I skip breakfast—again. But then, when was the last time I actually had breakfast?

My mind scrolls through a foggy timeline, searching mental calendars for a “breakfast” entry. I find one. But the date looks… wrong. Outdated. I zoom in.

It’s from twenty years ago.

Surely there must be more recent entries, I think. I repeat the exercise. Same result.

A glitch in the system, I decide.

I make a mental note.

Suddenly, I’m already in my vehicle, coasting through dark, quiet streets of a desolate village. The sleeping souls in these box-shaped homes line both sides of the road like silent witnesses.

My eyes are fixed on the endless stretch of tar, lit only by the headlights of this mobile deathtrap I call a car. My thoughts drift. My mind travels beyond the road. Beyond the village. Beyond the reality I no longer trust.

I blink.

Now, I’m at my desk.

My screens are alive with mind-numbing data—spreadsheets, digital maps, tracking grids. Tiny blocks of numbers float on an animated layout of a city I wish I could forget.

Streets with hollow names flicker in front of me, empty on screen but teeming in real life with desperate dots chasing wealth, happiness, or escape. Some will receive accolades in these hours. Others are unknowingly en route to their destiny with a cloaked angel in dark robes—an unseen impact waiting to rip them from this world into the underworld, leaving behind stunned mourners and unsaid goodbyes.

Life races on.

My fingers dance across the cold keyboard. Words and numbers appear on the screen like obedient ghosts.

Another load.

Another destination.

Money to be made.

Money to be lost.

All while I slave for the skipper of this wind-tossed little boat, relying on his shaky compass to get me to my next paycheck. A paycheck soon ravished by the monstrous beast known as The Revenue Service—an insatiable force that feeds on my labor and leaves me the scraps.

Greedy traders flaunt luxury vehicles, while others beg for a morsel of sustenance.

This is life as we know it.

I blink again.

The clock on my dashboard whispers that the end of today’s slavery is approaching. I look around. The paper on my desk has been moved, but I don’t care.

Tomorrow is another forgotten moment waiting to be lived and discarded.

I shut down the system and gather the few personal belongings I haul with me each day—like a prisoner permitted one bag of memory.

My thoughts drift only to home.

To the peace between warm sheets.

To the land where worries melt into soft, shifting shadows.

To the silence before the next invasive alarm.

For now, I am free.

Free in the moments that remain.

Free in the quiet of my own thoughts....

✨ About the Author

Vincent A. Comrie writes from the trenches of modern labor, reflecting on society, struggle, and the forgotten art of stillness. His work blends raw truth with poetic depth, challenging the reader to awaken from the slumber of digital servitude.