Deadlines rush on, relentlessly.
Another email signed,
We measure our days in the spaces between work,
Teaspoons of freedom we cling onto — to breath, to think
For a second, before the transactional nature of life,
We drink in the guilt of doing nothing;
Every moment commodified — thoughts into actions, actions into impact,
We give too much, yet we give not enough of ourselves — to ourselves.
Nobody talks about,
The loneliness, the suicides,
The feeling of seeing a dying child and,
Let us hold onto our hearts,
Until each heartbeat swallows us,
Pounding against the silence
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