Last night was no exception, feeling tired and too wasted to continue on, I drifted off quietly and fell asleep on my desk. However, as Bear Grylls would put it, “I was not ready for what happened next.”

A bearded man, wearing nothing but a robe, having visibly substandard hygiene appeared in my dreams.

I quickly realised it was Karl Marx, and how convenient that he wished to meet me on his 208th birthday.

Marx, just like any other sincere grandfather figure, first asked me how my day went. I remember him speaking in Bangla but with a German accent, a distinct sound I cannot express through words.

After recovering from the shock of seeing his half-naked body, I also partook in the pleasantries, asking him how he was, and how was his alleged gay partner Mr Engels.

Just like any other dream, I wasn’t aware of the ludicrous surroundings around me, but a red hue was present all around.

In his German accent, he asked me bluntly, “Why are you still working?”

I somehow couldn’t muster up the words, and stayed silent, prompting him to ask again, “Should you be working at this hour? Wasn’t 8 hours enough? Why still do you work?”

I gave a cheeky reply, “Because eight hours pays for survival. This extra work pays for expectations.”

He then proceeded to lecture me from what I think was the writing of the Communist Manifesto.

“Capital is dead labour, that, vampire-like, only lives by sucking living labour, and lives the more, the more labour it sucks.”

From what I gathered from this delusional tone was that my company was sucking everything from me, not even letting me live outside office hours.

“Ah,” he said, almost amused. “The average wage is only enough to keep you in your bare existence as a labourer, and this voluntary work in hopes of recognition can never bring you a liveable sum.”

Marx further lectured me, saying: “You call it expectations!” he murmurs. “I call it labour that exists only so long as it increases capital.”

I, being the silly little capitalist, replied to the half-naked German’s comments quite effectively.

“You call it bare existence. I call it a starting point. My father didn’t even have this much.”

Capital was being accumulated, I reminded him. I may even have shown him my bank balance on my phone.

I acknowledged the comments on exploitation, I acknowledged that some are born with privileges while people like me were not, and moreover there were further unfortunate ones who were below me as well.

Even with the standard class divisions, I replied that my savings were going to upgrade my son’s class standing as well.

“Here I am, fed, housed, and online at midnight arguing with a 19th-century philosopher. Capital seems to be doing something right,” I boldly stated.

Marx was visibly upset hearing my brainwashed thoughts. He must have realised the effects of his absence throughout the last 200 years.

“Fool!” he shouted at me.

“The proletarian… lives only so long as he finds work, and finds work only so long as his labour increases capital.”

He cited another line from his manifesto.

“You think you’re special? The company you work for won’t hesitate for one second when it comes to replacing you,” he added.

“And I also won’t hesitate either when I get a better offer, so long as I keep improving,” replied I.

The atmosphere started to change, Marx stared at me for a long moment, the red hue surrounding us was starting to disappear.

“You speak of choice,” he said quietly now, no longer shouting. “But choice inside necessity is not freedom. It is endurance dressed as pride.”

I almost replied. Almost.

But the room shifted before I could speak.
The desk beneath me began to feel unstable, like it was no longer part of anything solid.

And before I knew it, my morning alarm buzzed and it was 10 o’clock and I was already one hour late for my job, the penalty of which is an unbearable cut from my already bare minimum salary.