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The Empty Feed

My name is Elara, and until a few months ago, my world was vibrant. I was a freelance digital artist, my feed a kaleidoscope of colors and characters. I poured my heart into every commission, every sketch, every pixel. It wasn't just a job; it was my life, my way of connecting with the world.
Then, the tremors started. At first, they were subtle, a slight shake in my hand. I ignored them, attributing it to long hours. But they worsened, becoming violent spasms that made drawing, even holding a stylus, impossible. Doctors ran tests, their faces growing grim. The diagnosis was a rare neurological condition, one that steals fine motor control, one agonizing twitch at a time.
My world shrank. My vibrant feed went silent. The characters I breathed life into faded into the digital ether. The commissions dried up. The rent, the medical bills, the constant, gnawing fear – they didn't.
I sold what I could: my tablet, my drawing monitor, even my favorite collection of art books. The money vanished like sand through my trembling fingers. Now, I’m left with a flickering laptop, a mountain of debt, and the constant, chilling knowledge that my body is betraying me.
I miss the feel of the stylus in my hand, the way colors bloomed on the screen. I miss the joy of creating, the connection with those who loved my art. More than anything, I miss the hope that one day, I could make a life from my passion.
I’m not asking for much. Just enough to keep the lights on, to buy medication, to maybe, just maybe, afford a therapy session that might help me cope with the loss of everything I loved.
Every small donation is a flicker of light in the darkness. It's a reminder that even in the face of relentless decay, there's still a chance for a spark of humanity.