Flesh Without Faces

Some days, I wonder if we even see each other as human beings anymore.
It’s like we’ve stripped away everything that makes a person… a person. All that’s left is a body — moving flesh, warm meat, skin stretched over bone — but no real value attached to it. No meaning.

We pass each other like ghosts we refuse to acknowledge. We don’t see lives. We don’t see stories. We don’t see the weight someone might be carrying. We see a shape, a form, and that’s all. We pretend we’re too busy to care, but the truth is simpler and colder — we don’t want to care.

When someone suffers, it’s entertainment. When someone fails, it’s gossip. When someone dies, it’s a headline we scroll past. We’ve turned human life into background noise, a disposable thing we can ignore until it touches us directly.

People bully and humiliate others for the very same flaws they’ve seen in their own blood. They’ll tear a stranger apart for being broke, for being sick, for being “different,” all while loving a sibling or parent who struggles with those exact same things. The hypocrisy is sickening.

And yet, as much as we treat each other like we’re disposable, there’s still this deep, ugly hunger for attention — for someone, anyone, to notice us. To validate that we exist. We don’t want to care, but we want to be cared for. We want the affection we refuse to give.

We’ve made it easy to destroy a life, but almost impossible to save one. Compassion costs too much effort. It’s quicker to walk away. It’s easier to close your eyes. It’s simpler to pretend the person in front of you isn’t even real.

We live in a time where death is no longer shocking. Where tragedy is just another post in the feed. Where life means so little that you can snuff it out without a second thought.

Humanity was never perfect, but it used to mean something.
Now it’s just flesh, waiting to rot.