You have to acknowledge me. 
All my efforts stem from a deep-rooted fear of non-existing. 
My fading into oblivion. 
Psychologists have reported 
on my brave, new behavioural misconducts.
The soma lab is at work, 
keeping my ego afloat. 
But only barely. 
The passions of the flesh world 
bleed profusely and blindly into the digital.
For countless reasons, 
which are all highly unclear to me, 
I need to assert my presence 
in this generated field, 
which is born 
from a phenomenal illusion to begin with.
And on top of that, I need you, 
not only to confirm 
you have observed my stupendous labours, 
but also, 
to grade and mark my every endeavour 
with your most generous classification, 
suitable to the medium I am spreading myself on.
You want meat? 
I’ll give you many bloated meats.
But I’ll censor the pink bits 
because they are considered 
unethical, provocative and enticing. 
Which is too close to baiting and priming. 
And we can’t have that.
But we can have hearts, thumbs, 
hugs, cares, fingers, fists, 
numbers, shares, views, 
subscribes, follows, saves, copies, 
embeds, notifications, replays, messages, 
library and playlist adds, 
downloads, 
searches and explores, 
swipes, …
Watch me now, watch me later. 
As long as you watch me. 
Enjoy the myriad tools at your disposal 
to laude me. 
So many pixels to push. 
We’ll grow extra fingers in the future, 
just for that.
Tap my stream. 
Tap it, please. 
More. Harder.
Oh yeah, comments! 
I crave comments. 
And replies to comments. 
With avatars, stickers, gifs, memes, …
Put on auto-play. Loop it. 
Do it full screen. 
Infinity scroll.
Interact repeatedly. 
Frequently. 
Incessantly.
I need to source my serotonin spikes, 
anywhere and anytime I can.
As much interplay 
as you can muster to dispense. 
Waking up at odd hours 
to check the figures.
The demographics of my audience.
Their view time. 
Those delectable heat maps.

Look longer. 
I’m putting more details in the background 
for you to scrutinise. 
It’s all there in the small print. 
The glory is hidden 
in the very tail of my regurgitations. 
Tsss, haven’t you noticed them? 
Why so superficial, friend? 
Invest more of your time 
in my special, unique art. 
In my inspirational life.
My influential expressions.
Extend our harmonious screenplay. 
To pull you in deeper. 
To harvest more acclaim 
and fatten your devotion 
to me.
Or at least, 
to what I think is me. 

But remember, 
we are a team.
This is an alliance. 
A symbiosis. 
Actual harmony. 
You need me too. 
Don’t you feel it?
You’re getting so much out of this, 
aren’t you.
You wish for me 
to throw up this content. 
You solicit 
to discharge your appreciation.
We virtualise each other. 
And the stats 
are all that matter. 
I have nothing else 
to measure my advancements.
Therefore, I prostrate everything I do 
before as many as I can. 
This is where and how 
I become accomplished. 
This is self-realisation. 
This – is – happiness. 
I whore out my entire life 
for you to reflect your praise on it. 

But, I cheat. 
I show you 
only the savoury parts. 
The glammed up and polished version of events. 
The filtered, warped and enhanced view.
The real me 
feels insecure and hollow.
Unfulfilled at every turn.
Even the tangible skills, crafts and arts I acquire 
fade into nothingness 
when measured to the mastery of others.
When I compare, I lose. 
That’s why I impersonate a real winner, 
loudly professing not to care, 
while pumping out more posts 
that might crystalise my renown.
My immortality.
Looping back to 
my screaming angst of death.
The horror of not abiding.

The fear only endures 
because it is left uninvestigated.