I found myself talking to the walls during the lockdown. Not in the way people think—no dramatic outbursts or madness—but in that quiet, desperate way you mutter to empty spaces when the idea of being seen has faded. There’s a loneliness that’s not cinematic. No rain, no music. Just the stale company of your own silence, broken only by the endless ping of emails and notifications. But those messages weren’t from people. They were from apps, brands, employers. “You’re essential,” they said, while handing me crumbs and expecting gratitude. The virus separated us physically, sure. But the system? The system kept us isolated long after the virus faded, turning our loneliness into a subscription model. I noticed how every notification wasn’t about connection, but consumption. How grief became a product you could journal through, exhaustion a badge of honor, and self-care a market segment. Capitalism didn’t care if I was broken; it only cared that I kept buying the illusion of healing. I ...
I dwell in the spaces where shadows meet light, where questions outnumber answers. A seeker of truths buried deep, I write to unearth what lies beneath the surface. In the chaos, I find my voice. In the silence, I find myself.