I’ve spent two years in the UK chasing a dream they sell you on postcards.
I left a high-paying job, a whole life behind, thinking I was chasing peace, growth, opportunity.
Everyone thought I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had.
But the truth is, the UK is a beautiful cage with velvet bars.
Have you watched The Matrix?
Escaping the system is nearly impossible.
Maybe the system needs a Neo.
I don’t know if I’m him — maybe I’m not.
But I know one thing:
This place just drains you. Silently. Slowly.
Every story has a why and so does mine.
That £3,000/month salary? It’s a mirage.
Sounds like a dream until reality breaks it down.
Rent. Council tax. Energy bills. Groceries. Fuel. Inflation.
They bleed you dry before you’ve even had a moment to live.
You earn in pounds, yes but you save in crumbs.
This system isn’t made for wealth. It’s built for movement.
Keep rolling. Keep spending. Keep working.
Just don’t stop. Don’t question. Don’t breathe.
And when you do stop, you’ll realize:
You’re surrounded by people but you feel profoundly alone.
Friendliness isn’t friendship.
Smiles at work don’t turn into dinner invitations.
“Brotherhood” isn’t care it’s just code.
Culture isn’t community it’s a coping mechanism.
You start to miss being seen.
Not just nodded at. Not just “cheers mate” and “you alright?”
They call it multicultural.
What they don’t say is , it’s multi-tiered.
Your postcode.
Your accent.
Your passport.
They still decide your cage size.
You soften your accent just to be accepted.
You dilute yourself. Erase tiny parts, day by day.
Representation isn’t respect.
It’s categorization. It’s decoration.
It’s how the system classifies you, learns how to consume you.
And that holy grail — work-life balance — the most seductive line on the postcard?
It’s just marketing.
In truth:
Wake → Commute → Work → Sleep → Repeat.
Your job doesn’t fit in your life.
It swallows it.
You give your sharpest hours, your best energy, to someone else’s dream.
And then came anxiety.
Not the word — the thing.
It’s not a feeling, it’s a web.
And somehow, you become the spider. You build it around yourself.
The endless “sorry” and “thank you”?
They’re not warmth. They’re social lubricant.
They keep the surface smooth, but kill anything real.
You’ll start craving an honest fight over a thousand fake smiles.
And so, slowly, you build a cave.
It’s polite. Quiet.
And lonely.
The seasons change and yes, the autumns are golden, the winters are white.
But the cold turns cruel.
The 4pm darkness doesn’t just end the day it presses on your soul.
Seasonal depression isn’t some urban myth.
It moves in a tenant in your mind and you become the landlord.
And yes, healthcare is free.
But mental health?
It costs time, hope, and patience you barely have.
“Free” doesn’t mean accessible.
It means you’re put in a line, waiting to be saved — long after the storm’s already passed through you.
This society, this land of sophistication and numbing comfort, runs on dopamine.
Chasing weekends. Chasing sales. Chasing holidays.
All to feel… something.
To remember we’re still alive.
Finally, you cant “go home.” You never. You leave one country and become a stranger in the other
You are no longer a pakistani and not even British.
You are a ghost of places, forever belonging to the space in between them.
And then, you become
A ghost of two worlds.
Servceli | Strategy. Identity. Growth. 
Xyz
July 19, 2025 at 7:52 pm
A man named Elias woke up in a small white room — a cube no larger than a monk’s cell. No windows, just a bed, a table, and a journal. He called this his world. And to the best of his knowledge, it was.
Each morning, Elias wrote in the journal. Not because he remembered anything new, but because a note on the first page ordered him to:
For years — or perhaps days; time bled indistinctly — he obeyed.
Until one day, the walls trembled. A crack spread across the corner of his room. He clawed at it. The plaster broke away like brittle eggshell, revealing metal — and then, behind that, glass.
Behind the glass: another Elias, older, thinner, watching him.
The observer flinched.
Elias-1 stared.
Elias-2 tapped the glass — then reached down and pressed a button.
The floor dropped. Elias-1 fell through darkness.
He landed in a larger chamber — this one cold, dim, lined with mirrored walls. Surveillance cameras hung like mechanical vultures. A screen blinked awake: “Welcome back, Subject 23.”
More rooms. More layers.
Elias screamed at the cameras. “Who’s watching me?”
The answer never came. Instead, the walls slid open.
And again — another room. Another Elias.
This one asleep in a fetal curl. They had the same face, same scar above the eyebrow. Elias stepped closer, hand trembling.
The sleeping one opened his eyes and whispered, “We’re not the first.”
“What do you mean?” Elias asked.
The other laughed bitterly. “This is Cage Three. I’ve been to Four.”
“Four?”
He didn’t understand until he broke the next ceiling.
Beyond Cage Three was a world: artificial sun, fake birdsong, holographic trees.
People walked around — hundreds of them — dressed identically, moving in patterns. No one spoke. No one looked up.
Elias screamed again. No one reacted.
A child passed him, pulling a wooden horse on wheels. The child’s lips moved in a murmur: “They think this is freedom.”
Cage Four.
In time, Elias learned to navigate the pattern, like drifting within a fish school.
He found stairs.
Upward. Always up.
Eventually, he passed a sign:
But no one was there to stop him.
Cage Five was sterile. Glass tunnels. Lights too bright. Men and women in coats watched monitors. Behind each screen: versions of Elias. Sleeping. Dying. Writing.
He passed a glass cell marked “Elias – Prime.” Inside was himself, strapped to a bed. A machine fed him images.
Dreams. The cell room. The mirrored one. The synthetic forest. Everything.
A woman in a lab coat turned and gasped. “He’s breached?” she asked someone.
Alarms wailed. Red lights. Scrambling feet.
But Elias didn’t run.
He simply turned to the nearest camera and asked, quietly:
That night, someone new awoke in a small white room. There was a bed. A table. A journal.
And a note.
The cages never ended. Because the greatest prison isn’t the walls.
It’s believing you were ever free.
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Danish
July 20, 2025 at 10:27 am
Its good give it tittle let me post it
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