The square I don't want to join

There’s a square in town that never closes.

The sign at the entrance says “Free Entry.”
Below it, in small print, are complex terms and conditions.
No one has ever read them.

There’s a strange rule in the square:
Everyone must speak into a magic megaphone.
But this megaphone is picky.
It loves anger, loves arguments, loves tears.
Calm voices? It pretends not to hear them.

And every few sentences,
the megaphone suddenly interrupts with vendors’ calls.
Sometimes disguised as regular people sharing,
sometimes shouting promotions at full volume.
You want to hear your friends speak,
but you have to listen to three product pitches first.

The square’s owner hides in the shadows.
No one has seen him, but he controls everything.
They say he has no choice either—
Behind him are wealthy investors who funded the square,
demanding more crowds every year,
longer stay times,
more slips of paper to sell to vendors.
So the megaphone gets pickier,
the vendor calls more frequent.

Whose voice carries far,
who stands in the spotlight,
who gets silenced—
The rules change daily, but he won’t tell you.

The square has countless invisible eyes,
recording everyone’s footsteps,
the angle they turn to listen,
even the expressions that flash across their faces.
All of this becomes little slips of paper,
quietly passed to vendors outside the square,
letting them know who are the fattest sheep.

Some people enter wearing masks.
Masks make them brave.
Or rather, cruel.
No one knows who’s behind the mask anyway.
They can spit and throw stones freely.
Tomorrow they’ll come back with a different mask.

Even stranger are the robots.
They look like people, talk like people,
even better at pleasing the megaphone than real people.
They never sleep,
repeating certain phrases,
promoting certain things,
or spreading certain lies.

Most common in the square are the silent watchers.
They don’t speak, only observe.
Watch long enough, they start believing everything they hear.
Watch long enough, they start forgetting the world outside.
Watch long enough, they start thinking this is everything.

Some become stars in the square.
Some lose themselves in the square.
Some make fortunes in the square.
Some waste their lives in the square.

What’s most ironic?
The square grows more lively,
yet the people inside grow lonelier.
Everyone’s shouting, but no one’s listening.
Everyone’s performing, but no one’s living.

The sign at the entrance says “Connect the World.”
But the people in the square
have never truly connected.

I could enter this square anytime.
But every time, I choose to walk past.

I return to my own small courtyard.
No magic megaphone, my voice doesn’t carry far.
But occasionally someone passes by, hears my wind chimes,
and curiously pushes open the gate.

We sit under the tree,
drinking tea, chatting,
not rushing to finish, not fearing silence.

There’s no audience here,
just a few old chairs.
But those who sit down
truly want to hear what I have to say.