I always strive to be the best. All-nighters are normal nights for me, studying overtime is part of my routine, and skipping school events and family gatherings to focus on the major project due next eternity is the way it was supposed to be. And it worked—I excelled. It made me feel like I was above everyone who couldn't keep themselves together to submit tasks on time. Everything I did took hours to decorate and polish down to the smallest detail. My motto was “Make your output the best or don't submit at all,” and I submitted every single one.

I never missed a deadline. I passed assignments on time. I carried my groupmates—doing more than my share, making sure the output looked extravagant while they had fun with their friends and spent time enjoying their hobbies and their weekends. They were doing what they loved while I was pushing everything to the extreme. I was never able to do my hobbies. I didn’t watch a movie the whole semester. I never slowed down. I convinced myself that the work I did, the grind I wake up to every day, was the only thing that mattered. I had to graduate with flying colors, and I did. I had to do it to get into a university that could make me no longer the big fish in the small pond — and I did.

But now I’m in the next phase expected of me: earning the papers that say I am capable of work, capable of performing tasks, capable of doing everything to the extreme again. And I go on to this next phase thinking this is what gives me comfort. I tell myself this system is what comforts me. I think it’s true, but I don’t know if it’s true.

I still feel human, but not the kind who explores or discovers. I'm the human who follows instructions. I read assignment guides over and over again to ensure my work is perfect. I double-check everything, not because I enjoy it, but because I’m scared that I would no longer be special unless I overperform. Because I made “excelling” into my personality, and that makes me question whether I’m human in the first place.

Because now, I feel like I’ve become exactly what the system wanted—a worker. A sheep that never crossed the fence. Someone who stayed in their line and mastered it. I became “uto-uto” in the name of excellence. All those late nights, all the times I “slayed” every requirement—they were never proof of freedom or growth. They were proof of obedience. Proof that I was really good… at being a slave of this system. The best at doing what I was told.

But the truth is simple: the best slave is still just a slave.

The Frontman