They speak

but never truly say anything.

Words fall from their mouths

like prewritten scripts—

cold, rehearsed,

perfectly timed.

Smile here. Laugh there.

Mock what feels too deeply.

Everything has become performance.

People move through each other

like ghosts wearing skin,

pretending that cruelty is confidence,

pretending numbness is strength.

And if you feel too much—

if your heart still trembles

at harsh words,

at loneliness,

at the quiet ache of being unseen—

they call you sensitive

as if humanity itself

has become an embarrassment.

Sometimes I wonder

when the world became so plastic.

When empathy became weakness.

When vulnerability became comedy.

When hurting others

became entertainment.

Everyone is connected now—

screens glowing endlessly,

voices everywhere—

yet somehow

people have never felt farther apart.

Like machines learning

how to imitate emotion

without ever truly feeling it.

And maybe that’s why

kindness feels so rare now.

Why genuine souls feel almost out of place

in a world rushing to become colder.

But I refuse to believe feeling deeply

is something shameful.

I would rather ache honestly

than exist untouched.

I would rather remain soft

than become hollow.

Because despite everything,

despite all the noise,

the cruelty,

the disconnection—

I still want to be human.