By Abrar Farhan Zaman

I wake to a world that doesn’t need me—
A bed that cradles my discontent like a lover,
While outside, the sun rises,
But even its warmth is branded—
A commodity in the market of light.
I should feel the urge to fill the day,
But here I sit, a leaf drifting on the wind,
Unmeasured, unaccounted for.

The “feel-good productivity” gurus shout—
A chorus of hollow voices telling me
To make use of every moment,
To carve joy from the grind.
But why, I wonder,
When even leisure is a factory now,
Drenched in the scent of ambition?
Even my rest is sold back to me—
“Self-care” wrapped in plastic,
As if calm were a product on a shelf.

I remember a time when I was needed,
When I belonged to something bigger,
A cog in the grand machine.
But the machine spun faster,
And I, like a discarded part,
Was cast aside—
A member of the reserve army of labor,
Invisible, waiting,
But even my waiting is an act of resistance,
Isn’t it?

Here, I find freedom in the silence.
I should worry, but I don’t.
Isn’t it strange?
In this emptiness, I feel a strange peace—
A flicker of the Epicurean whispers
That freedom lies in simple pleasures,
Not the toil of endless labor.
A loaf of bread,
A quiet cup of tea,
The satisfaction of just being—
No need to conquer the world today.
For I have nothing to prove.

The philosophers once said
That true happiness comes from within,
From freedom, not from chasing the illusion of progress.
Perhaps the richest life is the one with nothing—
No market value, no demand to fulfill,
Just the warm sun on my face and the gentle hum of nothingness.

I am not alienated from the work I have left behind,
I am alienated from the illusion that work defines me.
In this space, I learn to taste my existence,
Free from the chains of productivity.
And when the world calls me back,
I will know that I can choose to answer—
Or not.

For I have learned
That the greatest treasure lies not in what I do,
But in the fact that I choose not to do
When I don’t have to.
And for that, I am rich,
Even in my nothingness.