Who Listens?

A satellite dish. Hidden behind walls in need of paint.
We built machines to connect. Promised ourselves we’d never feel alone again.
Now? We’re more alone than ever. Endless broadcasts, podcasts, shows, and feeds.
But who are you talking to, dude? Are you screaming into the static?
Silence is traded for noise.
Even the guy who commutes in the early morning slams the audio into overdrive when he leaves the driveway.
Bass shakes the cabin: Whump, Whump, Whump…
Every post, every “live,” every frequency: It’s the same prayer, channeled through the gods of tech: please hear me.
But nobody hears. Not really.

Prayers stream: a cheated heart begs for a thousand likes. By nightfall the altar shifts. Lipstick, abs, and tattoos for another round of worship. The gods never answer, but the ritual never stops.

I also drift through that graveyard of transmissions, where voices decay. Everyone is transmitting. Nobody is receiving. And yet we keep going. Smiling. Streaming. Pretending this is connection. Pretending this isn’t killing us.

Even in the static, a single voice can cut through, but only if it dares to be human, not content.
Connection isn’t found in more signals, more volume, more traction. but in fewer: the ones that bleed instead of entertain.

Next time you broadcast, aim it at one real person… not the void.
Name them. Write to them. If they answer, that’s connection. If they don’t, at least it wasn’t noise.