Slow, Unending Suicide
A Quiet Death We All Chose to Ignore.
Punch In. Punch Out. Repeat. Go to work. Come back home.
Sleep. Wake up. Do it again.
We are all slaves. To what?
To the slow, soul-numbing madness we’ve agreed to call life.
Put the gun to my head.
We all have wants.
We all have needs.
We all have dreams.
And somehow…some invisible, twisted force…tied all of them to money.
Put the gun to my head.
Want something?
Buy it.
Need something?
Better pay for it.
Have a dream?
Hope you can afford the time off to chase it.
Put the gun to your head.
And so, we do what we’ve been trained to do:
We punch in.
We punch out.
We punch TIME...our most precious currency, the one thing we actually need to live, to feel, to become anything at all.
We are all wrong in this madness. Can you not fucking see that?
Put the gun to your head.
We suffer quietly.
We suffer well.
We suffer together—and then have the audacity to pretend we’re not. We turn our suffering into competition, into badges.
“I have it worse than you.”
“No, I do.”
Fuck that.
Your pain is yours.
My pain is mine.
There is no hierarchy of hurt that makes this nightmare easier to survive.
Put the gun to my head.
We’ve created an illusion so convincing, so viral, that we BELIEVE this is what life is meant to be. We hold hands as we sink and convince ourselves this is floating. We hand down this madness to our children like it’s an heirloom. And we dare to call it normal.
Put the gun to their heads.
We are the problem.
Not men. Not women. Not "them."
Us.
Yes, women suffer.
Yes, men suffer.
Yes, society has wounded us all differently.
But while we bicker, blame, and build echo chambers…we keep punching the clock.
We fuel the machine with our silence, our submission, our scrolling, our sexless marriages and soulless hookups, our overpriced lattes and underpaid dreams.
Pull the trigger.
We keep feeding the beast that devours us and then wonder why it’s still hungry.
So let this slap you across the face:
Most of you reading this have either just punched in or just punched out.
You're tired. You’re numb. You’re convincing yourself this is fine.
But tomorrow?
Pull the trigger.
Maybe stay the fuck home.
Not out of laziness.
Out of rebellion.
Out of TRUTH.
Because nothing changes until we do.
And nothing ends this madness until we stop calling it life.
Because this isn’t living…
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang,
Reload.