Hylics are why we can't have nice things.
They move through the world like ghosts made of grocery lists and glossy screens. Soft, empty, polished. Call them Hylics because they have traded blood for battery life, longing for the thinnest pleasures while the world screams for someone to feel it honestly.
They gorge on comfort and call it living. Their laughter is the quick kind, the click-and-scroll kind, the kind that dies when the wi-fi drops. Look at them: faces lit by blue light, thumbs worshipping the altar of the momentary. They collect likes the way the lost collect souvenirs: a hollowing ritual that fills nothing. Meanwhile, storms roll in and no one answers the bell.
They are allergic to ache. Real grit, the kind that rips the skin and leaves a scar that tells a story, terrifies them. So they choose soft rooms, soft opinions, soft risks. They retreat into coziness like it’s armor, but it’s only velvet that smothers the soul. Courage looks dangerous; comfort looks safe. Comfort wins, always.
They worship shine and despise the root. Every surface is a confession; every mirror lies. They wear attention like a costume and mistake applause for allegiance. Underneath the curated smiles is a small hunger that scrolls and scrolls, searching for a taste that never comes. Depth is messy; depth is loud; depth requires ruin and rebuilding. They have none of that appetite.
They do not sit with themselves. When silence arrives, panic follows. So they fill it with songs, feeds, and the chatter of others until the self is only a rumor. They have no midnight conversations with the true self, no terrible questions thrown like stones into a dark pond. They prefer echo to answer.
They outsource their conscience to whoever’s trending. Moral courage is a relic; convenience is gospel. They point to experts, influencers, the latest thread, and call it wisdom. But wisdom is earned in nights of contradiction and argument, not in the happy hour of consensus.
They are small in the ways that matter. Not in height or in purse, but in capacity to love risk, to be wrong, to repair, to remain. They hoard safety and call it success. They never stand where the world will pelt them with truth. They are decorative, not generative.
