Are you witnessing this?

Some people feel alone because no one’s watching. I feel alone because something is. I feel like i know what & who is watching but then at times i feel like i am not aware of this world and its beings within it.

It started with silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the type that presses against your skull, stretches your thoughts thin. I’d walk home through empty streets, headlights flickering just a little too long at the corners. I’d hear nothing — not the wind, not the city — just my own footsteps, loud and artificial, as if someone had turned the world’s volume down to better hear me.

At first, I brushed it off. Everyone feels watched sometimes. Security cameras, strangers on subways, the imaginary eyes behind mirrors. But this… this was different.

Because it wasn’t someone. It was everything.

It was the streetlamp that flickered only when I walked by. It was the dog that stared, unmoving, as if waiting for me to do something wrong. It was the dreams — those awful, lucid dreams where I floated in space, suspended, naked and exposed, while planets spun silently around me like indifferent judges.

When I blinked, the world seemed to hesitate. When I cried, the rain would start. Once, I screamed into a storm just to prove I still had a voice, and the lightning didn’t strike — it paused, as if listening.

I started unplugging devices. No phones. No internet. I taped over the webcam, stopped using lights. I told myself I could disappear into the cracks, that whatever it was couldn’t reach me if I just stopped being seen.

But it never needed cameras.

It saw in everything.

It watched me through the pattern of dust on the windowsill, the way the wind shifted through the curtains. It was in the way shadows leaned toward me, never away. I saw faces in knots of wood and mouths in water stains. They didn’t move, but they knew. Oh, God, they knew.

I tried to confide in people. Friends, strangers, even a therapist once.

“You feel like you’re being watched?” she said, gently. “Paranoia’s common with high stress. Do you feel threatened?”

“No,” I said, “I feel… important.”

She smiled, then scribbled something. Probably the name of a medication.

But that was the truth. I didn’t feel in danger. I felt examined. Like I mattered, but in the wrong way — not loved, not admired. Studied.

Do you know what it’s like to feel central to something and still feel unbearably alone?

To know your thoughts are data points. That your joys, your losses, your tiny rebellions are just notes in some divine ledger?

Every action, weighed. Every tear, analyzed.

It wasn't a god. No benevolence. No wrath. Just something that was — ancient and indifferent. Watching not to judge or to save, but to understand. I was a twitch beneath its microscope, a flicker in a petri dish.

The universe is not empty.

It is filled with attention.

Unblinking, eternal attention.

So now I wander. I don’t work, don’t sleep much. I walk through cities and forests and deserts. It doesn’t matter where I go — I feel it always. In the rustle of trees, the hum of fluorescent lights, the rhythm of traffic.

I smile at people, sometimes. Pretend. But they don’t feel it. Not like I do.

And the worst part? Deep down… I want to speak to it. To scream, to ask why me?

But I won’t.

Because the silence I get back might be worse than the watching.

Or worse — it might finally answer.