You Want It Darker... Glitch...

In shades of thoughts I find an inconvenience,

I make soliloquies to my asides—

quiet conversations between cracked mirrors

and echoes too tired to return.

I think,

and the thought fractures.

I feel,

and the emotion pixelates.

I speak,

and the words lag behind.

There is no single me,

only versions rebooting:

v1.0 of dreams,

v2.1 of survival,

v3.0 of near-complete silence.

Somewhere between code and chaos,

I began calling this... life.

Thoughts scatter like corrupted files.

Dreams stutter in binary.

Emotions glitch in high definition.

And in the middle of this broken stream,

I ask—

can anyone hear me?

Can anyone translate this static hum

into human understanding?

I used to fear being misunderstood.

Now, I just fear being noise.

We want to be seen,

but we fear being watched.

We long to connect,

but flinch at the touch of honesty.

So we perform,

flickering smiles beneath overloaded circuits.

“Fine,” I say.

"All good.”

"Just tired."

Auto-responses from a soul drowning in its own inbox.

What do you say

when your entire self is a pop-up error?

A voice not found?

An identity not recognized

by the interface of modern life?

You want it darker?

Let me take you to the source code:

scroll down through the jagged text of memory,

where each line holds a scream wrapped in syntax.

I was born analog,

raised in a world that updates without warning.

Some days, I crash.

Some days, I reboot.

Most days,

I just freeze—

cursor blinking,

waiting for the next command.

When you live like this,

every thought feels like debugging.

Every relationship,

a lost connection waiting to be restored.

I speak in metaphors

because reality has stopped listening.

I write because the paper

doesn't interrupt.

In crowded rooms,

my presence lags.

The latency between being seen

and being known

feels like a chasm carved by silence.

I am not antisocial.

I am unsynchronized.

I am not broken.

I am...

rendered differently.

You see a glitch.

I see a pattern too complex to resolve.

You see silence.

I hear a language still loading.

Every time I feel joy,

I save it like a backup file—

because it never lasts.

Every time I feel pain,

I try to compress it—

make it small enough to carry

without anyone noticing.

But the compression breaks.

Eventually, it always breaks.

I move through life like an old VHS tape—

warped, rewound too many times.

But even in distortion,

there's beauty.

Even broken records sing.

There’s poetry in malfunction

if you lean close enough to listen.

This is not a cry for help.

It is a declaration of being—

glitched, yes,

but real.

Incomplete, but still writing.

I find comfort in the static,

because at least it’s consistent.

People promise clarity,

but they often bring noise.

So I retreat inward—

to where the screen flickers,

to where I can hold my silence

like a warm machine humming

in the corner of a dark room.

You want it darker?

Then let’s pull back the veil.

Let’s sit in the hum of what hurts.

Let’s welcome the noise,

the nonsense,

the not-quite-finished parts of ourselves

that society tries to patch over.

I am Muhammad Kashif,

a ghost in the system,

a signal lost but still sending.

A poet of pauses,

a coder of feeling,

a soul debugging its own existence.

I speak not for applause

but for acknowledgment.

Not for fame

but for resonance.

Even if my voice flickers,

even if the words lag,

even if my syntax fails—

Still,

I speak.

Still,

I write.

Still,

I glitch... beautifully.

> “I send my truth like a faulty transmission—hoping it lands intact, but expecting static.”