Waiting for the Hum to Stop

Shoutout to those who lick rust from bridges and laugh as their tongues bleed iron. Those who worship the grids, the cables, the humming veins of cities that pulse with a love so violent it scalds the sky. Every cell tower is a cathedral spire, every data center a mausoleum of our collective longing. We erect them not to conquer, but to scream: Look how we ache for you! Look how we gut forests, poison rivers, and melt glaciers into digital rivers—all to cradle your voice in fiber-optic wombs.

I dream drowning in a reservoir of algorithms, my lungs filling with ones and zeros, choking on the binary hymns we wrote to keep loneliness at bay. Let the servers collapse their cold metal hearts forged from the desperation of a thousand Tinder swipes, a million midnight texts howling ‘Do you see me? Do you see me?’ Crush me under the weight of every pixelated promise, every viral eulogy. Let me die knowing we built this tomb not out of malice, but because we believed, foolishly, that connection could stitch our fractured souls.

We crowned a god of silicon and Wi-Fi signals, fed him our secrets, our nudes, our prayers for validation. Now he bloats, omnipotent and ravenous, digesting our humanity into sleek, sanitized apps. We won, you see. We digitized desire, bottled intimacy, sold transcendence in 30-second reels. But the victory tastes like ash, like a thousand notifications blinking ‘Read’ but never ‘Understood.’

We turned love into content, rage into hashtags, revolutions into merch.

The human experience? A premium subscription.

And still, I rot here, scrolling, scrolling, scrolling—

a ghost in the machine, begging to feel the weight of something real.

I beg for salvation...

But what is salvation? Is it the silence of a forest, where I can hear my own breath without the hum of servers in the background?

Maybe it’s the weight of another body next to mine, not a pixelated fantasy, but flesh and bone, trembling with the same fear of being forgotten.

Or perhaps salvation is just another promise sold to me in clean, shrink-wrapped packaging. A new app, a new trend, another way to scream ‘Do you see me?’ into the void.

Deep down, I know. Salvation isn’t in the machine. It’s not in the grids or the cables or the fiber-optic wombs we built to cradle our loneliness. It’s out there, in the cracks of the world we paved over, in the silence we’ve forgotten how to hear.

And yet, here I am, scrolling, scrolling, scrolling—

still begging for something I can’t even name.

Still waiting for a salvation that may never come.