We, the Deleted of the Glass Garden
The fault was ours — we never learned the game of Instagram. We planted seeds in the soil of light, and the algorithm, quietly, every night, ate them all.
Once, everyone was ordinary: clouds, trees, photos lit by natural sun, voices speaking the accent of life. But now, no one without filters deserves to be seen.
We wrote "hello" on story walls, hoping to be heard, but our voices vanished into the data tunnels. The algorithm looked at us and whispered: low-value content.
I posted my poem, each line a wound of absence. The system replied: "Violation of popularity rules." Yet I had only written of trees, of rain, of friendships no longer online.
Haiku: ordinary leaf decays inside the silent server — forgotten by light.
We thought silence might save us, so we posted nothing. Only watching how light passes through faces and returns to the ads.
Until the day Instagram kicked us out. It wrote: your account is permanently deleted. The last tree fell, clouds erased from memory, and we were left in streets where no one searched our name.
Final haiku: the real world — colder than unread notifications, silent, without us.
