Written by Mike Ray

 

They say love used to be a long hallway…  

yeah—peeling paint, ghosts with their hands still out,  

somebody humming forgiveness in the corner.

Now it’s just a pop-up window:

Error 404… Mutual Understanding Not Found.

 

You scroll the advice mills, man,  

and it’s all “cut contact.”  

Beatitudes rewritten in all caps.  

“Preserve your peace,” they whisper—

as if love was a fragile pet they forgot to feed.

 

Fifteen years of digital confessions—

a whole confessional booth made of pixels and fear.  

Compromise went missing  

around the same time  

Facebook changed its name.

We traded giving grace…

for giving up. Politely.

 

The charts say therapy’s trending—

but talking?

Talking ain’t.

Everyone building boundaries 

like sandcastles of self-care,  

guarded by therapists in sponsored armor.

 

There used to be saints in bad habits—

now it’s influencers with ring lights,  

selling salvation with premium features.

They teach you to be your own savior—  

but salvation don’t mean much  

when you never leave the shore.

 

So we swipe right, ghost left,  

filter our faith through memes,  

and when someone hurts us,  

we call it closure.  

When someone forgives us,  

we call it naïve.

Funny how holiness got renamed “toxicity.”

 

Somewhere, a kid at Waterloo  

plugged fifteen years of heartbreak into a spreadsheet  

and plotted the decline of communion.

Maybe that’s fitting—

the new gospel written in Python,  

its hymns sung in data visualization.

 

Meanwhile, the old-timers in the pews  

still swear love’s a bruise worth keeping.  

Still talk of vows… and mercy… and mess.  

Not cause it’s easy—

but cause it’s holy… to stay.

 

Try saying that online, though.  

Watch the comments roll in like locusts:  

“Didn’t you read the update?”  

“He violated your boundaries.”  

Delete. Block. Heal.  

Repeat.

The new Stations of the Cross… on autoplay.

 

Me, I still believe in slow repair—  

in a leaky faucet, not a factory reset.  

In peeling wallpaper, not pixel glow.  

Love’s still a hallway, I think…  

the lights flicker…  

and the janitor’s gone home for the night.

 

Text © Mike Ray

 

 

 

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