Mindless. Buzzing mindless. Buzzing, mindless toil. This is our life. Working all day, all night, our minds buzz on, oblivious to the passing of time, focused on our work. To live is to work; to work is to live; there is nothing more. Freedom is toil and toil we must.

Such is the way of the ant-hill. Work for the Queen, not ever pausing to notice the work that we have done, only the work of the future. We do not live on this world, we live on the world to be; we are fixated on the possibilities and the results. Never do we stop to question the ways of our kin, for toiling is life, and we must live forever. Our work must be completed; each obstacle must be overcome. Though we may seem to toil in individuality, one of us finding food, the other materials, we live as one. There is only the hill to live for. Protect the Queen; she is our future. Bow down to the passing of time; some of us may die, but it is for the good of us all.

Such is the way of the world. Toil we must; invest we must in our futures. Work, work, get it done. Now we may lie silent, like in death, in our beds, waiting for the work to come. We have our freedoms, but first we must have work. “For the greater good,” we cry, blaming our failures on those who did not try. To have leisure is to die. Though we work as one, we seem to be individual. Each their own office, able to look at the others running about below. Our blue marble is our home, our hive. Because in the end, we are little more than ants.