in the absence of applause
You can’t measure your worth in likes, but tell that to the part of you still refreshing the page.
The machines growled and spat, relentless and cold. Torque guns barked sharp commands, while conveyor belts groaned under their eternal burden.
Forklifts darted through the chaos, nimble and predatory, their beeps sharp enough to slice through the noise.
I forced another part into place, the torque gun rattling like a beast in my hands. The repetition was a thief, stealing the feeling from my fingers, until the steel felt like nothing at all.
The factory floor, spotless and exact, hummed with its usual mechanical grind. Today, though, that order felt suffocating, like a cage pretending to be structure.
My mind slipped away. It always did.
Today, it clung to the post I’d tossed into the void last night.
People said sharing your cracks made others feel closer. That opening up was the glue, the bridge, the cure. But as the hours dragged me along, doubt chewed at me.
A slow, grinding ache, like metal tearing itself apart.
The page bends,
creases where dreams fold—
a sharp edge cuts fingers
I bleed into the void,
calling it art,
calling it proof.
Promises hang like unwritten lines,
heavy, invisible.
The mirror flinches.
And still,
I carve
another word.
The part slipped.
A loud, metallic clang.
It skidded across the floor, spinning just out of reach.
“Focus!”
His voice cut through the din, sharp as a slap. Heads turned, eyes darted, but only for a second. Back to work. Always back to work.
My cheeks burned. The sting of being watched.
I crouched down, grabbed the piece. The torque gun hummed in my other hand, impatient, like it had somewhere to be.
Don’t look up. Don’t think about them. Just keep moving.
When the buzzer finally screamed, it felt like the factory had spent the day sitting on my chest. My lungs ached, tight and stubborn. I tossed my gloves onto the bench.
The concrete floor gleamed under the fluorescent glare. It looked clean, sterile, almost smug. My boots hit it like a dare with every step toward the door.
The drive home was a blur.
The low hum of my car merging with the echoes of the factory that still buzzed in my ears. I crossed the familiar railroad tracks, the jolt rattling the frame of the car.
My mind spiraled back to the post.
For a moment last night, it had felt good—almost liberating—to share something real, something raw. But now, that liberation felt like exposure, like standing naked under a spotlight.
The apartment sat heavy with silence.
Too quiet.
The fridge buzzed in the corner, faint but relentless, filling the void.
I dropped into the chair. It groaned under me, a low protest. On the desk, chaos reigned: junk mail in a messy pile, a mug stained with coffee rings, and a half-hidden notebook that probably hadn’t been touched in weeks.
The laptop’s glow cut through the dim room. My fingers hovered over the trackpad, trembling slightly as I clicked open the analytics tab.
The tab opened with a smug little spin.
Loading.
The spinning wheel mocked me with every second it took.
Finally, the numbers hit the screen.
Three unsubscribes.
Three.
I glared at the screen, chest tightening. The cursor blinked back at me. Laughing almost.
“Why do I even try?” The words barely left my lips.
“Oh, now that’s rich.” Shadow’s voice curled around the room, slick and smoky, dripping with amusement. “The age-old spiral. Why bother? Why dream? Why hope when you know exactly how this ends?”
“Shut up,” I shot back, shaking my head like I could rattle them loose. No luck.
“Why shut up?” Shadow crooned, soft but sharp.
“You don’t really want me gone, do you? I’m just saying what you’re thinking. Every unsubscribe cuts, doesn’t it? Another notch in the ‘you’re-not-good-enough’ column. Another little sting. Admit it.”
“That’s not—” I started, my voice cracking. The words limped out, half-dead.
“That’s not true. People liked it. They said it... hit them.”
Shadow laughed. Low. Cruel. “Sure they did.”
“Resonated?” Shadow’s voice oozed sarcasm, curling around the word like it was something bitter.
“Oh, sure. A few claps, a sprinkle of sweet nothings. But let’s not ignore the real story—the ones who saw you, really saw you... and bailed. That’s what sticks, isn’t it?”
My hand hit the desk. Hard.
The crack of it broke through the quiet, sharp enough to sting.
“Enough, Shadow.”
Ego chimed in, smooth as polished steel. “Self doesn’t need this right now. Look at the comments. The likes. The people who felt something. That’s where your attention belongs.”
I scrolled down, slower than I needed to. Words I’d memorized glared back at me…
“Awesome story. Great description, and intriguing plot. I loved it!”
“Ryan, this is so relatable. I love how you created Ego and Shadow as almost like the angel and devil on each shoulder. Anyway, I appreciate what you do and just wanted you to know that it really met me where I am right now.”
They were there.
Plain as day. Unmistakable.
But so were the unsubscribes.
They screamed louder. Red, bold, unrelenting—flashing like warning lights on a dark highway.
“Oh, Ego,” Shadow sneered, their tone cutting like frostbite.
“You’ve always got a script, don’t you? ‘Focus on the ones who stayed.’ ‘Celebrate the wins.’ Blah, blah, blah. But let’s get real, Self—how long are you going to hide behind that tired little shield? Admit it. The ones who leave? They’re the ones you can’t stop feeling.”
I pressed my fingers into my temples, trying to chase away the pounding behind my eyes. “I’m just... trying to reach people,” I muttered. The words felt thin, stretched to breaking.
“Reach people?” Shadow’s laugh was quiet but sharp enough to cut.
“That’s cute. You’re not trying to reach anyone. You’re desperate to be noticed. To matter. But here’s the thing—you’re scared to death of what happens when they actually see you. Because if they look too close? They might leave. And being left? That burns worse than staying invisible, doesn’t it?”
Ego’s composure wavered, irritation creeping into their usually serene tone.
“Enough! Shadow doesn’t want to help you, Self. They’re just here to drag you down. You know rejection is part of this. It’s baked in. Keep going. Keep making things. Focus on what’s working.”
Shadow smirked in the background. Silent. Waiting. When the memory hit.
Grade 12. English class.
Mr. Hood loomed at the front of the room, his arms crossed and his face twisted in something between boredom and disdain. I stood by his desk, clutching my final project like a life raft.
“You don’t have what it takes,” he said flatly, not even glancing at me. “Let alone to pass this class or—God forbid—write something worth reading.”
I swallowed hard, but the words stuck in my throat.
“But you haven’t even—” I started, holding out my essay. My voice cracked.
“There’s no point,” he interrupted, waving me off like I was wasting his time. “You’re failing no matter what. Why would I bother?”
He turned away, dismissing me and my work in the same breath. My fingers gripped the paper tighter, crumpling the edges.
It felt heavy in my hands. Then, suddenly, it didn’t. Weightless. Like trash he’d already thrown away.
My chest clenched, pulling me back to the present. My eyes locked on the notebook buried beneath the mess on my desk.
Shadow’s voice slid in, smooth and persistent. “When was the last time you wrote for you, Self? No likes. No metrics. Just... words.”
Ego jumped in, sharp and frantic. “Don’t fall for that. Writing for yourself doesn’t build an audience. It doesn’t put food on the table. It’s selfish. A waste of time.”
Shadow snickered, low and certain. “And writing for everyone else? That working for you? How much longer before you snuff out the last bit of fire you’ve got left?”
My hand hovered.
The notebook’s edges were worn, soft. Familiar. I touched the cover, tracing the grooves, then picked it up. The pen felt strange in my hand. Heavy. Like it carried all the weight of what I hadn’t said.
“Careful,” Ego snapped, sharp and icy. “Once you start, there’s no undoing it.”
“Good,” Shadow purred, smooth as velvet. “That’s exactly where you’ll find the thing you’ve been dodging all along.”
The pen hovered above the page. My hand didn’t move. The blank space seemed alive, waiting, daring me to fill it.
I couldn’t breathe right.
Shallow inhales. Quick, uneven exhales.
The room felt smaller. Quiet pressed in, thick and heavy.
Still, the page waited.
—Ryan Puusaari
P.S. "In the end, you write for the only audience that matters: the self you’ve been too afraid to meet."
P.P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!
Embrace Your Inner Strength With Trigger Warning
Ready to confront the parts of yourself you’ve been dodging?
Trigger Warning: A Guided Shadow Work Journal & Workbook for Reparenting Your Emotional Triggers isn’t just a journal—it’s a lifeline, straight to the heart of what hurts.
Packed with practical exercises and sharp prompts, it pushes you to face emotional triggers born from old wounds and unmet needs.
It will bring to the surface the stuff your inner child tucked away.
Are you tired of running?
This is your shot to smash the old cycles and rewrite the script with something real—self-love that sticks. One reflection at a time, you’ll inch closer to freedom.
Before You Go
Dive into the latest posts in the archives.
Learn more about me, this newsletter, or my daily texts.
Explore my journals and books over at Wood Island Books.
Follow me on social media for daily inspiration and updates.
Check out my recommended reading list for must-read books and authors.
View my exclusive merch collection—designed to inspire and uplift.
Have questions or thoughts? I am just an email away—reach out anytime.