I clock in, I clock out

Name: Shift. Shift by shift, year by year. I’m the one who keeps the place running while others talk about dreams.

Who I am — The invisible carrier

I’m the guy in overalls you see but don’t notice. My hands are permanently dirty — oil, cement, sweat, it doesn’t come out anymore. My shoulders hang as if I’m carrying the weight of the whole factory. Sometimes it feels that way too.

The punch card on my belt is my chain. 6:30 in, 3:30 out. Every damn day. The thing clicks, and a piece of me dies. But without that click, my family dies.

My boots have more miles than some cars. My hands more calluses than fingerprints. I’m not broken — I’m punched out.

My Connections — Classmates in the broadest sense

We all come from the same dirt, only some fought their way out.

Drift I’ve known since childhood. Both working-class kids, both grew up without prospects. The difference: he ran away into drugs, I into work. In the end we’re both trapped — just in different cages. I understand his texts, even if I don’t understand his path.

Splinter and I, we don’t talk much, but we understand each other. Both invisible, both carrying loads others don’t see. When he raps about masks, I think of my work uniform. Also just a mask — only one I can’t take off.

Lume reminds me of everything I once was. Curious, hopeful, full of dreams. When she sings, I hear the boy I once was, before the world showed me my place. I wish I could have her enthusiasm. Instead I admire her from afar.

Gl1tch lives in a world I don’t understand. Tools, tech, meta-commentary. But when he talks about systems, I listen. At least someone who understands that we’re all trapped in machines — only his is digital, mine analog.

Unknown fights against the system that’s eating me. I admire his courage, even though I’m too tired to fight. His political texts speak from my soul — I just could never formulate them so precisely.

My Images — Different Shifts

The work image shows me in my element — overalls, helmet, amidst the machines. This is how I spend 8 of 24 hours of my life.

The after-work image shows the other side — coming home tired, but at least free for a few hours. The exhaustion in the eyes, but also the relief.

The comic image maybe tells a story where workers are heroes, not just extras. Where our hands are more important than the bosses’ heads.

My Songs — Hymns of the Invisible

Lists & Lights is my manifesto. There I tell about the lists — shift schedules, pay stubs, applications that never get answered. And about the lights — the few bright moments that keep me alive.

Job Gone is bitter reality. How quickly you’re replaceable when the numbers don’t add up. “You’re no longer worth it, then you’re not worth it anymore” — that’s the truth about work in this country.

Why I exist

I’m the reminder of who really keeps this country running. Not those in offices, not those with titles — us in the factories, on construction sites, in warehouses.

I represent everyone who works themselves to death and still never has enough. Who need energy drinks in the morning to wake up, and beer in the evening to forget. Who smoke three cigarettes in five minutes of break because that’s the only time that belongs to them.

Without me, the world of the others would just be foam. I’m the foundation their dreams stand on.

What drives me

My family. The rent. The awareness that behind me stand others who have even less.

And sometimes, in rare moments, the hope that my texts show someone: you’re not alone. You’re not worthless. Your hands are more important than their words.

I don’t write for fame or recognition. I write because someone has to tell our stories. Those of the ones who work so others can dream.

The truth about Shift

Three cigarettes in five minutes of break. Several energy drinks in the morning. Too tired for dreams in the evening, too tired for hope in the morning. Money too little to live, too much to die.

But I’m still here. I clock in, I clock out. And between the clicks I write lines that show: we’re more than just numbers on pay stubs.

“Lists, last, laughter, quieter — all voices, all screamers.”