I Deleted All My Social Accounts—Yet I Still Fear Loneliness

The Screen at 3 a.m.

I used to think silence was empty. Then I deleted every app—the likes, the DMs, the endless scrolls. But when midnight passed and only the glow remained—cold, steady, electric—I realized loneliness wasn’t gone. It had just changed shape.

The blue light of my monitor became my new temple. Not because I needed validation, but because it held space for what no one else would say: the weight of unspoken thoughts, the rhythm of breathing after too much noise.

Reflections on the Subway

I walk home late sometimes—not to escape, but to witness. The flicker of faces in glass windows as trains pass by: strangers who look like ghosts because they never meet your eyes. In New York’s silent stations, anonymity becomes sacred.

I used to crave connection like a gambler chasing wins on a Furen table—but now I know: true luck isn’t in betting more. It’s in pausing long enough to feel the cold air between decisions.

No Rituals Left

They call it ‘digital detox.’ I call it ritual without ceremony.

I don’t follow trends anymore—not even when they scream ‘you’re falling behind.’

Instead, I record my last ten sessions—not wins or losses—but textures: how light falls across an empty chair at dawn, how shadows cling to steel railings before sunrise, how silence remembers your name even when you stop speaking.

This isn’t strategy. It’s poetry written in code. And maybe that’s why no algorithm can measure what matters most: you’re not alone if you choose to be still.