No One Reads Anymore

I sit at my desk long after midnight, fingers stained with ink that no one will ever notice. The room hums with the static sound of existence...

The refrigerator, breathing in the kitchen, rain tapping weakly against the window, the clock dragging itself forward like it's tired of time too.

The cursor blinks at me...

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Like a tiny lighthouse searching for ships that no longer sail.

Why are you still doing this?

Because I have to...

No, you want to believe you have to... there's a difference.

I laugh to myself... What else am I supposed to do?

Something people will actually see, because nobody reads anymore.

They scroll. They skim. They consume fragments. Sentences amputated from meaning. Poetry flattened into captions beneath photographs no one remembers five seconds later. Entire human souls compressed into 30-second clips before the next distraction arrives.

But books? Pages? Slow thoughts?

No.

Nobody has time for those anymore.

And yet here I am... Still writing paragraphs like prayers nobody answers.

Still stitching pieces of myself into sentences that will probably die in silence.

The truth about loneliness... The truth about God... The truth about fear...

The unbearable realization that sometimes the universe feels both infinite and claustrophobic all at once... like standing beneath a sky so large it makes your existence feel microscopic, while still somehow still feeling trapped inside your own skull.

I wrote it all down... every revelation. Every wound. Every beautiful thing I noticed while the world hurried past.

And for what? No one is coming to read this...

I could write the most devastating truth humanity has ever seen. I could unravel the mysteries of grief, existence, love, death... I could spill my darkest secrets onto these pages until I bled myself empty.

And no one would ever know.

The cursor continues to blink...

Blink. Blink. Blink.

I think about the poets of the past. The authors whose words survived centuries. People underline them now. Tattoo their lines onto skin. Whisper their quotes beneath yellow classroom lights. Entire generations carry fragments of dead writers inside their hearts like sacred relics.

People say their names with reverence...

Edgar Allen Poe. Sylvia Plath. Fyodor Dostoevsky.

Their suffering became literature. Their loneliness became immortal.

And mine? Mine disappears into algorithms. Buried beneath advertisements and reaction videos and endless noise.

I could write something that would save someone's life fifty years ago...

Now it drowns before anyone even notices that it exists.

So, who am I writing for?

Myself... The honesty of it hurts... because that's what this has become.

An endless conversation with myself. I witness myself. I archive myself. I appreciate myself because nobody else stops long enough to do it.

Every sentence is just another echo bouncing around the empty cathedral of my own mind.

Maybe if I describe my thoughts carefully enough... I can prove I existed.

Even if no one reads it... Even if the words rot quietly in forgotten folders after I'm gone. At least they were real once. At least I saw them.

The cursor waits patiently...

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Does it make me angry?

Yes... Furious, actually.

Furious that humanity has more ways to communicate than ever before, yet somehow says less.

Furious that people ache for depth while running from anything that requires stillness.

Furious that entire inner universes die unheard every single day because attention spans have become too fragile to carry them.

Entire galaxies hidden inside ordinary strangers.

But nobody reads anymore...

So, we become ghosts while still alive. Talking to ourselves.

Hoping the act of writing is enough to justify the silence that follows it.

And still... I place my fingers back onto the keyboard.

Maybe that is what writers have always been...

Not people who are heard.

But people who speak anyway.