When you criticize, it helps to understand the other’s perspective.

I suppose I am writing to you because I can no longer speak to anyone. As people turn to technology for their every word, the space between them widens, and I am no exception. Everyone speaks, yet no one listens. The noise fills the room, and still it feels empty.

Parents grow indifferent, and their children learn it before they can name it. A sickness spreads, quiet and unseen, softening every heart it touches. I once believed I was different. I told myself I still remembered love, that I still felt warmth somewhere inside. But perhaps I only remember the idea of it. Perhaps feeling itself has gone.

I used to judge the new writers for chasing meaning in words. I thought they wrote out of vanity. Now I see they are only trying to feel something, anything at all. I watch them, and sometimes I envy them, though I pretend not to. They are lost, yes, but they still search. I no longer do.

The world is cold, and I have grown used to it. I write to remember, but the words answer nothing. They fall silent, as if ashamed. Maybe you understand. Maybe it is the same with you.

Maybe writing coldly is simply compassion, a way of not letting others feel your pain.