A house is a class illusion for ordinary people, a lock on life's liquidity.

You empty six wallets, carry thirty years of debt, and finally feel you've reached the shore.

But the real beginning starts now.

Monthly payments (mostly interest)
Property fees (and always rising)
Maintenance funds and endless repairs (from leaks to elevator aging)
Property tax (though late, it arrives)
Opportunity cost (you dare not resign, dare not rest, dare not try anything risky but potentially life-changing)

Each item alone seems manageable,
but together, they form a solid invisible cage.

Your greatest capital—the right to choose when young, the right to make mistakes, the possibility to turn things around—is mortgaged once and for all in exchange for a concrete box.

Many people pursue this house all their lives,
not for living,
but to declare to everyone:
I am finally a proper person, I am safe.

To put it plainly,
this is a middle-class dream trap.

Treating huge debts as assets,
locking your life onto a single track as stability.

The final result is often:
Your best years and greatest creativity
are spent working for banks and land finance.
You own the property deed but have lost the ownership of your life.

The true bourgeoisie
no longer proves itself with bricks.
Their wealth lies in liquidity,
in real assets that can be globally allocated and generate cash flow.

And you,
are nailed there.