Dear World

Fury, punctuation, and the cosmic spreadsheet of life

I’m writing because you keep pretending you can’t hear me.
Don’t worry — I’m used to it. I’ve been shouting into your glowing void for years: blogs, Substacks, emails, carefully-worded pitches. And yes, I post online in what I will forever call tweets — call it “X” or “posts” or whatever corporate rubbish, but I’m calling them tweets anyway.

And in return? The sweet sound of nothing.
Not even a polite “unsubscribe.”

You know that line people trot out — “We receive a high volume of emails”?
Yes, I know. I’m one of them. I’m part of your high volume.
I imagine you swimming in my words like smoke, brushing them off your glossy algorithmic skin, muttering, “Maybe later.”

I have entered competitions, lotteries, raffles, and life itself, and the only thing I ever seem to win is another lesson in invisibility.
Apparently, if the universe keeps score on a cosmic spreadsheet, I’m the column marked nice try, better luck next life.

I’ve worked hard. I’ve worked too hard.
I’ve been let go, passed over, “not quite the right fit,” and occasionally bullied by people whose moral fibre wouldn’t hold up a tea bag.
And every time, I’ve picked myself up, brushed off the indignity, and thought,
Fine. I’ll write about it.
Except writing doesn’t make you visible, does it? It just turns your fury into punctuation, echoing in the dark.

You see, World, I’m not asking for fame.
I don’t need a blue tick, a viral post, or a motivational podcast.
I just want to know someone’s out there.
That a sentence of mine found a heartbeat and made it skip.
That I haven’t wasted my life flinging words into your infinite scroll.

But here’s the thing: even as I write this, I know you probably won’t answer.
You’ll be “busy,” or “overwhelmed,” or “taking a digital detox.”
And I’ll roll my eyes, hit publish, and carry on screaming beautifully into the void.

Because that’s what I do.
I am invisible — but I am audible.
And one day, World, you’ll stop long enough to listen.
When you do, I’ll be right here — laughing, swearing, scribbling my truth, still unapologetically me.

Yours,
The Ginger Warrior