05 August | The Dopamine Hit · 5 of 11
The clock strikes 19:31,but the sun in my pocket never sets.I am feeding a blue-lit ghostwith the marrow of my sentences,waiting for the ping that feels like a heartbeat,the digital nectar that turns my blood into static.
One scroll. Two.My thumb is a pendulum swingingbetween "Inbox (0)" and "Sent."The dopamine is a jagged glass,I drink it anyway,shredding my throat for the sweetnessof a "Dear Author" that hasn't arrived.
The world outside is thick with Sumatra rain,but I am breathing the ozone of the algorithm.I am an anomaly in a world of code,refreshing the page until my eyes turn into salt,obsessed with the ghosts of editorswho hold my worth in their "Delete" folders.
Tick. Tick. Tick.The cursor is a blinking eye that never sleeps.It watches me hunger for a ghost,it watches me trade my peacefor a flicker of neon light.
I am not tired.I am just waiting for the next hitof a dream that refuses to die.