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So, the sun's out.
People always say that like it’s supposed to matter. Like the sunshine will somehow bleach away the stink of stress, misery, and existential rot we’ve all marinated in. But no, not today.
Everywhere I look—grey faces, furrowed brows, clenched jaws. The living are shuffling around like they’ve already died and just haven’t filled out the paperwork.
You can feel it in the air. That sick, metallic taste just behind the throat. Like a storm coming—but it's not weather. It's something worse.
The Beast is loose.
Not a myth. Not a metaphor. The Beast is the government—spun in grey suits, slick with power, blind with bureaucracy. It snarls in Parliament and drools through policies written in wine bars and cigar smoke. It doesn't walk—no, it slithers, unseen, through headlines and benefit assessments and the knock at the door when they tell you you've been sanctioned because you didn’t prove you were still dying hard enough.
The Beast doesn’t eat food. It eats hope. It feasts on the disabled, the poor, the mentally ill. It sniffs out despair like a pig with truffle-sensitivity and fangs.
And everyone’s playing the game. Eyes down. Pretend it’s not real. Pretend the letters on your doormat aren’t demands. Pretend the nurse didn’t just quit. Pretend the care home isn't full. Pretend that universal credit is anything but a slow-motion mugging.
Pretend we’re not already in the wasteland.
Dystopia isn’t coming. It’s here. It’s been here since we sold out compassion for efficiency. Since we decided that spreadsheets were more important than souls.
Orwell didn’t write fiction. He wrote a bloody user manual.
And those of us who do see?
We get dragged into the pit together. The mentally bruised. The physically wrecked. The ones who've been through the grinder so long we’ve learned to taste rust and call it breakfast.
We don’t want your sympathy. Keep your pity. All we want is honesty.
We are not fine.
We are surviving the Beast. Every. Single. Day.
And some of us have found ways to ride the storm. Me? I light a little herbal incense—strictly spiritual, of course—and let the fumes blur the edges of this living nightmare just enough to laugh.
Because what else is there?
So welcome, friends—new and old. Welcome to my nightmare. It’s not a dream. It’s not a metaphor. It’s my life, and maybe yours too.
Join me. Take my broken hand, my burned-out nerves, and we’ll skip merrily into the depths of cognitive collapse together.
Bring a torch. And a sense of humour.
You’ll need both.
“The views in this post are based on my personal
experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”
“By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
By storm and silence, I survive.”
@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk