Some of it begins underground. Hands in soil. Not farming, not burying – something in between.

We carry bricks. We carry buckets. Sometimes water, sometimes not. The difference is never clear at the start. The weight tells you eventually.

There’s a structure that insists on returning – each time slightly altered. Sometimes it looks like a toilet. Other times it looks like an idea someone had in the rain.

We hammer things that won’t break. We sweep dust that never settles. We argue with shadows.

Bodies bend. Sweat marks the hours better than clocks. There’s laughter that echoes like ceremony, and silence that doesn’t ask permission.

We don’t always know what we’re building until we’ve used it. Even then, we question the blueprint. Maybe that’s the point.

What we do is visible, for a while. Then someone uses it. And it disappears – into function, into story, into something someone else calls progress.

We call it work.
You might call it something else.