We are born into corridors paved with numbers,
where every footstep is timed,
and every breath weighs against a clock no one named.
From the first day we open books,
the world teaches us that worth is measured in marks,
and dreams are graded in percentages.
The classroom hums like a factory,
desks arranged like assembly lines,
where thoughts are stamped,
answers folded into neat boxes,
and curiosity is filed away under instructions.
We race without seeing the finish line,
chasing scores like shadows chasing light.
Every exam is a gate,
every grade a medal in a contest no one taught us to enter.
We climb staircases built from syllabi and deadlines,
our hearts pounding with the echo of invisible bells.
We forget that we are running,
until we look back and find ourselves strangers
to the dreams we once carried.
We collect marks as if they were currency,
spending years buying approval
in a market that never closes,
never pauses,
never questions why we run.
And we run,
because stopping feels like losing,
and losing feels like losing ourselves.
The rat race does not have a finish line,
only a mirror that reflects exhaustion,
a reflection that says you are enough only if you never stop chasing.
We trade moments for merit,
rest for ranks,
breath for benchmarks.
And yet, deep inside,
there is a quiet voice that asks,
what if life was not a race,
but a river to be felt,
a song to be learned,
a sky to be lived?
But in the corridors of study,
where time is measured in deadlines,
and dreams are reduced to points,
we forget that the greatest lesson is not in winning,
but in remembering why we started running at all.
November, 2025
