They say,
“Freedom is earned.”
But what they don’t say is —
it’s paid for in silence.
In tired spines.
In dreams bartered for daily bread.
They call it financial independence.
As if money was a liberation song
instead of the softest chain ever forged.
As if survival
was the same thing
as sovereignty.
Your wealth is not yours —
it is leased by the hour.
Approved by signatures
you’ll never see.
And it disappears
the moment you stop bleeding for it.
You climb ladders
not to reach the stars,
but to stay above the drowning.
You’re told to rise —
even if it means
standing on the backs
of those who broke before you.
They tell you to strive.
To compete.
To conquer.
To build your empire
from the dust of others' ruins.
And when you start to choke on the dust —
they’ll hand you a mirror
and tell you it’s progress.
They’ll call you independent
the moment you buy your first coffin
in monthly instalments.
They’ll tell you you’re free
when you can afford to die alone,
quietly,
with all your bills paid.
No one is free
when their worth is counted
in hours,
in profits,
in relevance.
Even the kings of capital
wear their crowns
like nooses disguised in gold.
You think your job saves you?
It rents you.
You think your business liberates you?
It devours you.
You think ownership is power?
Ownership is just the illusion
that you can’t be replaced.
We’ve built civilizations
on the backs of broken backs.
And called it success.
But success isn’t freedom.
It’s just the prettiest name
for servitude.
And the cruelest truth is —
we were born
into a marketplace of bodies,
and will die
having barely owned
our breath.
So the next time they ask you
what you do for a living,
ask them instead —
“What are you dying for?”
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