SHRED THE WORLD

My world shrinks to the size of a screen, and the buzz of electricity is like a constant reminder: You’re alone! All alone! Out there, people are connecting, touching, feeling each other’s presence. But here? It’s just me and the endless, cold hum of my computer. It’s supposed to be freedom, right? Freedom to connect without boundaries. But what a joke! LOL! Here I am, more isolated than ever, drowning in a sea of data and despair.

What’s even real anymore, huh? Everything gets fuzzier, weirder. Reality? It’s all just a mess in my head now huh. Screens flicker, and so do identities—mine, theirs, everyone’s! It’s like, one moment you think you know who you are, and the next, BAM! You’re just another avatar in a digital freak show. Who am I even talking to anymore? Are they real, or just another echo of my fractured self, LOL?

The more I listen, the crazier it gets. Secrets spilling out like they’re on some cheap reality show. But it’s not a show, it’s my fucking life! They’re inside my head, telling me there’s no way out. You’re trapped! Trapped in a world you helped build but never really understood. It’s like, every click, every scroll is just pulling me down into this abyss of madness.

Disconnect? As if!!! How do you disconnect when your entire existence is wired into the freaking system? I’m half here, half there, always split between my crappy house and a billion bytes of data, surfing through a digital ocean without a shore in sight. It’s just a blur, something I might have dreamed up in a pixelated nightmare.

I can’t even remember the last time I talked to someone face-to-face without freaking out. Real people seem so intense now. Their emotions, their demands—too much, too loud, too close! It’s like they can see right through me, see how broken I really am.

And at night, it’s the worst. The darkness doesn’t just whisper; it screams that I’m losing my mind. Maybe I am! Maybe going nuts is just part of the package deal when you live like this. It’s a lonely road, spiraling down into chaos. But hey, maybe chaos is just the ticket, the way to finally break free from all this suffocating loneliness.

Every time I peek through my window, it’s like watching some bizarre, outdated TV show. People hustling, bustling, always busy, always noisy. Do they even see the world anymore, or just their next appointment, their next deadline? And they look at me like I’m the lost one! At least I’m not pretending to enjoy the rat race!

I seek pure, unfiltered existence. But then, why do I feel so empty? It’s like, each day I spend in there, I lose a piece of myself. Am I vanishing?

Then there’s the paranoia. Are they tracking me? Am I just a lab rat in some twisted experiment? They say the internet is freedom, but sometimes it feels more like a high-tech prison. And the worst part? I built my own cell. Then, there’s this whole idea of connection. Supposed to make us closer, right? LOL, what a scam! I’ve never felt more disconnected. Every message, every like, every share—it all just feels so… fake. Like we’re just throwing emojis at each other instead of actually talking. What happened to real emotions? Are we all just too scared to show anything real, or have we forgotten how?

Sometimes I think about just pulling the plug. Go full caveman mode. But then what? Face the real world? That place where I don’t fit in, never did. They wouldn’t even know what to do with a freak like me. Out there, I’m weird, a recluse, a ‘problem.’ But here I’m just another rando, ambiguous, alive in ways I can never be outside.

And let’s be real, no matter how much I rant, I’m not leaving. This is my life now, my sanctuary and my cage. Maybe someday I’ll find a balance, find a way to bridge the two worlds. Or maybe I’ll just dive deeper, lose myself completely in the digital deep end. Either way, it’s a journey, right? And journeys are supposed to be about discovery. So here’s to discovering whatever version of me comes next.

What’s the point anyway, right? Beyond all of that, what’s there for someone like me? I spend my days working on stupid stuff. Art and computers—they’re not just hobbies; they’re my lifelines, the only things that make sense in a senseless reality.

Finding a job? Ha! That’s a good one. As if any place out there would understand the way my mind works. They want teamwork, collaboration, networking—buzzwords that mean nothing to me. How can I fit into their neat little boxes when social interactions feel like navigating a minefield blindfolded? Every interview feels like an interrogation, every job application a reminder of how ill-equipped I am for ‘normal’ life

It’s like the world has this predefined path—school, job, family—but what if you stumble right at the start? Then what? You get labeled: lazy, antisocial, failure. They don’t see the hours I spend learning, the nights spent making art or crying myself to fucking sleep. In their eyes, these aren’t achievements; they’re just wasted time because they don’t fit into a standard resume.

And so, I retreat further. The internet becomes my sanctuary, the only place where I can truly express, create, and be acknowledged. Online, there are others like me. We exchange ideas, art, fragments of our soul. Here, I am somebody. Here, I have value. But every time I log off, the reality crashes back—this isn’t a career; it’s escapism.

There are days when the concept of dreams feels almost alien to me. Dreams are for those who have a clear vision of the future, a path they’re eager to follow. But me? It’s like I’m standing at the edge of an abyss, staring into a void where dreams should be. There’s nothing there, no burning desires or grand plans, just a numbing emptiness that stretches endlessly.

Without dreams, the days blend into each other—indistinguishable, monotonous, flat. Wake up, check the screen, lose myself in, create something beautiful yet ephemeral, and then sleep. It’s a loop, a safe routine that keeps the anxiety at bay but does nothing to fill the void of ambition. What’s there to look forward to when your whole world is confined to the same walls, the same screens, the same isolated existence?

Sometimes, I think about what it would be like to have something to look forward to. Would I feel more alive? More connected to the world? But then the anxiety creeps in—the fear of failure, of reaching out and finding nothing but air. It’s safer to have no dreams, to expect nothing. That way, you never face disappointment, never feel the sting of unmet expectations.

And yet, the lack of forward momentum is its own kind of torment. The world moves forward, people around me move on with their lives, chasing their dreams, and I remain static. The same art, the same projects, no evolution, no progression. It’s stifling, suffocating. But it’s also familiar, and there’s a twisted comfort in the familiarity, in knowing that today will be much like yesterday, and tomorrow like today.

This stasis is not a choice borne of laziness or a desire to avoid effort. It’s a defense mechanism, a way to guard against the harshness of a world that I don’t understand and that doesn’t understand me. Without dreams, there’s no risk of crumbling under the weight of my own aspirations. But there’s also no chance of soaring, no possibility of discovering a passion that might pull me out of this fog.

Despite having followers, online friends, anonymous commenters, whatever - it’s striking how loneliness can still seep through the cracks of even the most populated online spaces. Each interaction is a pixelated shadow of human contact, a reminder of what’s almost, but not quite, real. It’s like being in a room full of voices without a single one truly reaching me.

The paradox is brutal: I’m never alone, but I’ve never felt lonelier. My inbox is always full, notifications keep pinging, social media feeds scroll endlessly with updates, likes, and comments. Yet, none of these interactions manage to breach the superficial surface. They’re there, but they’re not there for me. They don’t see the person behind the screen; they see the facade, the digital person I’ve constructed.

I’ve curated an online presence, a version of myself that can interact without the messiness of real emotions and vulnerabilities. Online, I can edit, revise, and present the best—or at least the most interesting—version of myself. But who cares about this digital avatar when the lights go off and I’m left staring at the ceiling, engulfed by the silence of my room? The contrast is jarring, and it only deepens the sense of isolation.

These online connections, while valuable in their own right, often deepen the void rather than fill it. They remind me that behind every typed message and shared image, there’s a physical space that separates us. A space filled with air and silence that no amount of digital communication can truly cross. It’s one thing to chat with someone hundreds of miles away, to exchange memes and messages, but it’s entirely another to have someone sit beside you, to share a laugh or see a smile in real time, without screens or pixels to dilute the experience.

The ease of connectivity online creates an illusion of companionship that begins to crumble under the weight of reality. I know these people, yet I don’t know them. We share moments, but not memories; exchanges, but not experiences. The loneliness isn’t alleviated; it’s merely accompanied by a chorus of distant, disembodied voices.

So, maybe there’s something poetic in this madness, a sort of messed-up beauty in watching yourself fall apart byte by byte. Maybe I can just let go, become something else, something that doesn’t hurt so much. Maybe I’ll fade away, become just another lost soul floating through. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll find something real amid all the fake. But until then, I’ll just be here, screaming into the void

LOL, world, look at me now!

i’m way better off dead huh