I made something today. Took me three hours to write it, two years to feel it, and half a second for no one to care. I made art. Real art. The kind with no hashtags. The kind that dies if you explain it. But the feed… The feed saw me. And kept going. Swiped left. Refreshed. Suggested a lip-sync instead. The feed knows your worth. Not your name. Not your pain. Just your pattern. Just your yield. I watched someone dance in grief. Real grief. But their sadness was clickable. Mine wasn’t. Mine needed quiet. Mine needed time. So mine failed. The algorithm wants clarity. I only have confusion. That’s how I knew I was still human. The feed knows your worth. It does not ask what you meant. It does not wait for you to become. It wants now. It wants new. It wants next. But I’m still here. Still writing. Still not performing my sadness. Still not lip-syncing my loss. Still not dancing for crumbs. The feed knows your worth. But it doesn’t know your soul. It doesn’t hear the quiet days. It doesn’t hold what you meant to say. Maybe no one will hear this. But if you did… maybe you’re still here too.
