Work and that too the drudgery that I shamelessly undergo is really making me sick. Day after day, I come closer to becoming a cog in the wheel. Some say work is all that is to life; so slog hard and you will have a fulfilling life. But Marx had something more to it:

And the labourer who for twelve hours long, weaves spins, bores, turns, builds, shovels, breaks stone, carries hods, and so on—is this twelve hours’ weaving, spinning, boring, turning, building, shoveling, stone-breaking, regarded by him as a manifestation of life, as life? Quite the contrary. Life for him begins where this activity ceases, at the table, at the tavern seat, in bed. The twelve hours’ work, on the other hand, has no meaning for him as weaving, spinning, boring, and so on, but only as earnings, which enable him to sit down at a table, to take his seat in the tavern, and to lie down in a bed. If the silk-worm’s object in spinning were to prolong its existence as a caterpillar, it would be a perfect example of a wage-worker.