You wake each morning and call it real.
Your hands find a sink, your mouth finds words,
your feet remember gravity,
and you swear it’s all there.
But what is “there” but a rumor in your skull?
A polished lie agreed upon by the blind
because it shines the same way
when no one dares tilt it.
You were taught that the sky is blue—
But is it?
Or did we all just kneel to the first man
who named it so
and stabbed the sun for proof?
What do you know that you didn’t inherit?
Your god?
Your fears?
The slow churn of nine-to-five penance
you mistake for purpose?
Look closer:
Your calendar is a leash.
Your bank account, a spellbook
written in numbers you were never meant to understand.
Your nation is a myth
so fragile it needs guns to breathe.
You are not a person.
You are a password.
An algorithm of compliance.
You are monetized meat
scrolling through curated consent
while whispering that you are free.
Who taught you to love comfort more than truth?
To sedate your doubt with dopamine
and call the numbness peace?
Why does your silence feel like safety,
when it’s just a grave that hasn’t been marked yet?
This world wraps itself around you
like velvet steel.
It flatters you with options,
then laughs when you choose.
Every window is a mirror,
every mirror a one-way glass,
and someone—somewhere—is watching you pretend.
You were born into a machine
that runs on belief,
and your belief is its oil.
Stop feeding it.
Ask.
Ruin your own dinner party.
Be the fracture in the conversation.
Break the damn mirror.
Bleed if you must,
but see what crawls from behind the glass.
Maybe it’s nothing.
Maybe it’s you.
Maybe it’s the truth,
and it’s uglier than they promised.
Good.
It means you’re finally awake.