As you run, so does the cost. Behind a nervous laugh you know what needs doing, but claim there’s nothing you can do. Not now.

You know the dream. But your feet move in the opposite direction. You sprint towards collapse while telling yourself it’s just another day.

The price isn’t coming later, it’s already here. But the bill for delay isn’t paid in installments. It shows up violently and all at once.

It’s the emergency cost.

It’s what you get for waiting until you’re heading downhill at breakneck speed, as you attempt to hold onto the life you’ve ignored, between two pieces of rusted metal and two white knuckling fists. You give yourself whiplash from the anticipation of brakes that have always been there. Your soul steps through the floor, and for the first time in years life moves in slow motion. Lights hang on the dash like the lights you left up from last Christmas.

It’s August, 2025.

“We’re two-thirds through the year, what’s the point?” ”What’s four more months?” ”What’s forty more miles?” ”What’s four more years of self-abandonment?”

The sirens strike you now but the lights have run out of battery from spinning all this time unnoticed. You don’t see yourself driving this life. You see a slob. Fat. Pathetic. Hiding behind excuses and crumbs.

But if you stopped wasting this moment imagining someone else, you’d stick yourself behind the wheel and see the grease on the console. Your wrappers under the seat. Your hanging gut over the belt. You’d look up at your rear view mirror and catch a glimpse of the decades you traded for “busyness.”

WAKE UP. WAKE UP. WAKE UP.

It’s just a dream.

Stress hormones pump through your veins, as you thank god it’s not real. FUCK. What do you think the dreams are?

The dream is life. And you’re still sleepwalking toward the cliff with blinders on and your favorite Spotify playlist. You could stop right now, but you are too afraid to be anyone else.

Another four months. Another forty miles. Another four years.

Wake up or brace for impact. No one is coming unless it’s you.As you run, so does the cost. Behind a nervous laugh you know what needs doing, but claim there’s nothing you can do. Not now.

You know the dream. But your feet move in the opposite direction.
You sprint towards collapse while telling yourself it’s just another day.

The price isn’t coming later, it’s already here. But the bill for delay isn’t paid in installments. It shows up violently and all at once.

It’s the emergency cost.

It’s what you get for waiting until you’re heading downhill at breakneck speed, as you attempt to hold onto the life you’ve ignored, between two pieces of rusted metal and two white knuckling fists. You give yourself whiplash from the anticipation of brakes that have always been there. Your soul steps through the floor, and for the first time in years life moves in slow motion. Lights hang on the dash like the lights you left up from last Christmas.

It’s August, 2025.

“We’re two-thirds through the year, what’s the point?”
”What’s four more months?”
”What’s forty more miles?”
”What’s four more years of self-abandonment?”

The sirens strike you now but the lights have run out of battery from spinning all this time unnoticed. You don’t see yourself driving this life. You see a slob. Fat. Pathetic. Hiding behind excuses and crumbs.

But if you stopped wasting this moment imagining someone else, you’d stick yourself behind the wheel and see the grease on the console. Your wrappers under the seat.
Your hanging gut over the belt. You’d look up at your rear view mirror and catch a glimpse of the decades you traded for “busyness.”

WAKE UP.
WAKE UP.
WAKE UP.

It’s just a dream.

Stress hormones pump through your veins, as you thank god it’s not real. FUCK. What do you think the dreams are?

The dream is life. And you’re still sleepwalking toward the cliff with blinders on and your favorite Spotify playlist. You could stop right now, but you are too afraid to be anyone else.

Another four months.
Another forty miles.
Another four years.

Wake up or brace for impact. No one is coming unless it’s you.