The Life You May Never Have Thought Existed

What if everything you believed about how life must be lived was simply a story you inherited or was a product of societal conditioning?

The Mathematics You Were Never Shown

Here's a question that changed everything for me: Where does your time actually go?

Not philosophically. Mathematically.

Take a typical working adult in modern society. They work 40-50 hours a week—not primarily to feed and shelter themselves, but to participate in a system that claims a significant portion of everything they earn. Taxation takes its share. The inflated cost of living—housing prices driven by speculation, food prices marked up through supply chains, utilities metered and billed—takes more. Commuting consumes hours. Compliance with various regulations and administrative requirements consumes more still.

What remains after all this extraction? Evenings too depleted for presence. Weekends too short for restoration. Spleepless nights common, with a feeling that there's never enough time to rest. A few weeks of annual leave, rationed carefully.

We call this remaining fragment "free time," as if freedom were the exception rather than the natural state.

But here's what struck me: What if the extraction stopped?

Not in some utopian fantasy. Practically. What if a group of people simply... stopped participating in systems that took more than they gave? What would the mathematics of life look like then?

The Internal Economy

When I first encountered people living this way—on land they stewarded together, growing their own food, sharing labour and skills—I expected to find hardship. Struggle. The grinding work of survival.

I found something I wasn't prepared for: time.

Abundant, unhurried, spacious time.

Here's what I didn't understand before: when 100% of your effort benefits your actual life rather than being extracted by intermediary systems, the economics transform completely.

A community of twenty people, each contributing a few hours daily to shared needs—food cultivation, maintenance, childcare, cooking—can meet all their material requirements while working far less than any individual working alone within the conventional system. There's no landlord taking a third of your income. No commute stealing ten hours weekly. No tax collector claiming a portion of every transaction. No artificial inflation making basics increasingly unaffordable.

The hours that the conventional system extracts simply... remain yours.

And something remarkable happens when people aren't exhausted from extraction: they become present. Available. Alive.

A Week I Never Knew Was Possible

Let me show you rather than tell you. This is a composite week, drawn from communities I've encountered, living this way:

Monday

The day begins without an alarm. Bodies wake when rested—usually with the light, though some rise earlier, some later. There's no synchronisation required for a commute that doesn't exist.

By mid-morning, a group is in the garden. Not rushing to complete tasks before "real work" begins, but present with the soil, the plants, the rhythm of tending.

Conversations happen naturally. Children weave in and out, learning by proximity rather than instruction.

Lunch is communal—prepared by whoever felt drawn to cooking that day, from ingredients grown fifty metres from the kitchen. There's no transaction, no splitting of bills. Food exists. People eat together.

The afternoon holds different activities for different people. Some continue outdoor work while the weather holds. Others pursue crafts, repairs, creative projects. A few simply rest, read, or sit quietly. There's no guilt in this. Rest is not stolen time.

Evening brings people together again—not from obligation but from genuine desire for company. Music happens. Stories are shared. Children fall asleep surrounded by the quiet presence of adults who aren't staring at screens or mentally preparing for tomorrow's obligations.

Tuesday

A building project needs attention—a new shelter for tools, planned and designed collectively weeks ago. Those with relevant skills and current energy gather. Others continue different work: food preservation, clothing repair, teaching children practical skills.

This is not "everyone must contribute equally to everything." It's organic. People do what they're capable of, what they're drawn to, what needs doing. Over time, it balances. The community has learned to trust this.

A visitor arrives in the afternoon—someone exploring whether this life might suit them. They're shown around not by a designated representative but by whoever is available and willing. Questions are answered honestly: Yes, this works. No, it's not for everyone. Yes, there are challenges. No, we wouldn't go back.

Wednesday

Rain. The outdoor work pauses naturally.

This is a day for indoor tasks: processing stored food, mending, crafting items for trade with neighbouring communities and trusted outside contacts. It's also a day for being together in closer quarters, for longer conversations, for the kind of connection that requires shelter and stillness.

Someone leads a session on fermentation—passing knowledge to those who want to learn. There's no curriculum, no certification, no fees. Knowledge exists. It's shared.

The children are learning too, but not in a separate building called "school." They're present in life, absorbing skills by participation, asking questions as they arise, being answered by whoever knows.

Thursday

A community discussion is needed. A decision about resource allocation, a question about welcoming new members, a minor conflict that needs acknowledgment.

The discussion happens in a circle. Not because circles are symbolic but because they're practical—everyone can see everyone.

What strikes visitors most about these discussions is what's absent: the posturing, the alliance-building, the ego-investment in "winning" one's position. When people have done inner work—when they've examined the beliefs that generate "I must be right"—a different kind of conversation becomes possible. Ideas are evaluated on merit. "Whose idea was this?" matters less than "Does this serve us?"

Decisions emerge rather than being forced. Where clarity doesn't arise immediately, the discussion continues another day. There's no deadline imposed by external scheduling.

Friday

Some members travel to a nearby town for supplies that can't be produced internally—certain tools, materials, medical supplies. They bring items for trade: preserved foods, crafted goods, surplus from the harvest.

This isn't re-entering the system. It's interfacing with it selectively, on terms the community controls. Money is used where necessary—it remains useful as a medium of exchange. But dependence on the money economy has been radically reduced. The community could function, if needed, with almost no external inputs.

Those remaining continue the gentle rhythm of land-based life. There's no sense of some people "working" while others "relax." Everything happening is life. Tending goats. Repairing a fence. Watching clouds with a three-year-old. Making bread. Playing music. Sitting in silence.

Saturday

In the conventional world, Saturday is recovery—the desperate attempt to restore enough energy to face another week of extraction.

Here, Saturday is simply another day. Different activities might happen. Someone might undertake a larger project that benefits from uninterrupted time. Others might choose more rest, more play, more nothing-in-particular.

A meal in the evening is slightly more elaborate—not because it's "the weekend" but because several people felt like cooking something special. Wine made from last year's fruit. Stories from those who've been here longest. Laughter.

The children stay up later, not because rules are suspended but because there's no alarm demanding everyone synchronise for an early departure to places they'd rather not go.

Sunday

In many communities, Sunday holds space for reflection, gratitude, or spiritual practice. This isn't prescribed. Those drawn to meditation, prayer, or contemplation gather or practice alone. Others simply continue living.

The week ends without the particular dread Sunday evening holds for those facing Monday in the conventional system. Tomorrow is simply tomorrow—holding more of the same unhurried presence, the same meaningful work, the same genuine connection.

What Actually Changes

Reading a description like this, it's easy to focus on the external differences: no commute, no boss, no tax forms. But these are symptoms, not the transformation itself.

What actually changes is subtler and more profound.

Time ceases to be scarce. When you're not selling hours to afford life, hours become abundant. And in that abundance, something shifts. Rushing stops. The perpetual background anxiety of "not enough time" dissolves. You stop constantly calculating whether you can "afford" an hour for a walk, for a conversation, for stillness.

Presence becomes possible. The parents in these communities are actually present with their children—not performing presence while mentally elsewhere, not "quality time" scheduled between obligations, but simple ongoing proximity. Children grow up with adults who are there. Not absent in body or depleted in spirit. Just... there.

Connection becomes natural. When you're not exhausted from extraction, you have energy for others. Meals together aren't obligations to schedule. They're the natural rhythm of people living together. Conversations aren't squeezed into fragments. They unfold at the pace they need.

Work becomes life. The split between "work" (what you must do) and "life" (what you want to do) collapses. There's simply activity—some of it labour, some of it rest, some of it play—all of it yours. The hands in soil, the food being prepared, the structure being built: this isn't what you endure to afford life. This is life.

Joy becomes the ground rather than the goal. In the conventional paradigm, joy is pursued. It's the reward for sufficient accumulation, the brief respite between obligations, the thing promised for later that never quite arrives. In this way of living, joy isn't pursued. It's what remains when the structures that obscured it dissolve.

The Inner Work

I'd be dishonest if I implied this life is simply a matter of logistics—find land, grow food, share labour, enjoy results.

The communities I've seen thrive have something else in common: they take inner transformation seriously.

Here's why this matters: most of us carry minds conditioned for conflict. Competition, scarcity, judgement, the need to be right, the need to control—these aren't features of reality but of conditioning. Bring a group of people together without addressing this conditioning, and you get the same conflicts, politics, and power struggles that plague every other human organisation.

But when people do the inner work—when they actually examine the beliefs that generate conflict—something different becomes possible. Not perfect harmony (that would be suspicious), but a fundamentally different orientation. Disagreements happen but don't become wars. Decisions emerge from genuine inquiry rather than ego-contest. Community becomes a support for awakening rather than another arena for the conditioned self to defend.

This isn't everyone's path. Not everyone is interested in examining their own minds. But the communities that integrate inner work with outer restructuring seem to achieve something that purely practical efforts miss: sustainable peace.

The Questions That Changed Everything

I'm not writing this to recruit you. I'm writing it because I wish someone had shown me earlier that the life I was living—the exhaustion, the time scarcity, the perpetual not-quite-enough—wasn't the only option.

The questions that opened this for me were simple:

What if the amount I work isn't determined by what I need but by what's being extracted?

What if the scarcity of time isn't natural but manufactured?

What if the isolation I feel isn't inevitable but is a byproduct of a system that benefits from disconnection?

What if there are people, right now, living in ways I was never told were possible?

There are. They're not on the news. They're not producing content about their lives. Many prefer to remain unseen by systems they've quietly stepped away from. But they exist—communities of people who've done the mathematics, found them wanting, and built something different.

Not perfect. Not utopia. But different. And for many of them, that difference means: time for their children, presence for each other, work that feels like life, rest that's actual rest, and joy as the ground of existence rather than its distant goal.

What If?

I'm not suggesting you should upend your life tomorrow. Most people who've made this transition did so gradually—questioning assumptions, reducing dependencies, building skills, finding others with similar visions.

But I am suggesting this: the life you're living may not be the only life available to you. The exhaustion you feel may not be the price of being human. The time scarcity may not be real. The isolation may not be necessary.

What if there's a life you never knew existed—not in some distant future or faraway place, but available now, to anyone willing to see through the stories they inherited and ask: What would I choose if I knew I had a choice?

And choice is partly the reason for this article, because that choice may not always exist. As the societal machine tries to grip ever harder onto those that have blindly accepted it as life, with biometric ID, with more control, with less opportunity for living independently or outside controlled supply chains - it may just be the moment to consider.

If life is about survival or even a perception of "success" in the imposed structure, then it will have a certain character. You've been there and have the T-shirt. But if you see the opportunity to tread a different path, now is the time. And when groups get together, it's nowhere near as hard as you think.

For insights into the way things are headed, Read this!

If this resonates, sit with it. Not as a call to action but as permission to question. The conditioning that tells you "this is how life must be" is just conditioning. It can be examined. And in that examination, something new becomes possible.

Not created. Not forced into existence. Simply seen—the life that was always available, waiting to be noticed. This is our path.