I am just surprised by the world today
a world where a person in his flesh and bones,
conversations and insecurities,
baring it all,
isn’t a true identity.
But the moment he says his name —
a name that can be fed
into the data-lusting capitalist belly
of a search engine —
he’s suddenly “real.”
Like the blood wasn’t real until Googled.
Like the pain didn’t count
without a hyperlink.
Like the art didn’t breathe
until metadata confirmed
you’re someone.
We are now creatures
of algorithms and indexed sins —
fragments of browser histories
more alive online
than we ever were in person.
You can bleed out on stage,
weep into microphones,
scream poetry so loud
it could crack silence into sonnets,
but until they can spell-check your name,
you’re just a placeholder —
“Anonymous” in italics.
And now,
we are all just usernames
pretending to be people —
QR-coded confessions,
barcoded beings
waiting to be verified
by the same algorithms
that wouldn’t survive five minutes
inside our unsaved drafts of grief.
Because in this world,
you don’t exist
until someone can CTRL+F your very existence
and hit enter
on a name
that doesn’t flinch when searched —
not the face, not the voice,
not the trembling truths you left on stage —
just a name.
A clickable name.
And if it doesn’t autocomplete,
neither do you.
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