Congratulations, You are Connected

Look at me — glorious, glowing — bathed in blue light, dying slowly with 4G speed. My soul is buffering. “Talk to someone,” they say. As if I haven’t typed my grief a thousand times into search bars and still got no answer but a smiling emoji. I know 842 people. They watch my stories. But no one remembers my voice when it’s not performing. Connection? Yes, darling, I’m well-connected — to cables, to curated illusions, to people who’ll send you a heart but forget you exist the moment their phone dies. My loneliness wears lipstick now, because apparently pain should be aesthetic. Even despair must have a filter. I posted a cry once — cleverly disguised as poetry. Got 217 likes. No one called. Isn’t that love in the hyperconnected world? I smile with my teeth, but not my eyes. My inbox is full. My life is not. They say: “You’re too sensitive.” As if sensitivity is a disease not caused by this world’s cold, charming cruelty. So here I am — applauding the silence, dating my own shadow, sharing reels with the void, saying “I’m fine” in high resolution. Darling, this isn’t loneliness. This is performance. This is existential comedy with bad lighting. This is the echo of a world that forgot how to feel but never forgot how to scroll.