To you, who have paused here for a moment

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I see countless scenes.

A procession of parents who, even after they have passed before their intellectually disabled child, cut their hair and crawl on burning asphalt, their knees and elbows worn down, performing three steps and one bow, so that their child may live in this world a little more safely.

A son who died so tragically, caught in a conveyor belt, that his body was unrecognizable. And a mother who, to prevent the death of another son, raises her voice for the first time in her life.

An elderly man with white hair who jumps from his wheelchair and lies across the entrance to the subway, so that someone, someday, who may suddenly become disabled like him, can have a safe commute in the early morning, just like everyone else. The eyes and lips of those who look down on him, scoffing and spitting out words of contempt, as if it has nothing to do with them.

Yes, perhaps you cannot see these scenes.

Stories trapped behind the walls of advanced algorithms. Scenes you may have only glimpsed in passing. Perhaps these stories make you uncomfortable. Like someone who approaches a fish floundering on dry ground out of curiosity, only to turn away. Some may even find themselves identifying with the movements of those floundering fish.

But I deliberately try to show these stories that truly exist by our side.
Just because we do not see them does not mean they disappear.
The people in the scenes I have witnessed may once have had the same perspective as you. Some may have mocked them.

Perhaps, at some point, we became accustomed to ignoring the pain of others, or even building our own systems so that we do not see it at all.

But at any moment, we too may find ourselves trapped behind that wall, our voices lost. Myself included.

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I hope, even just for this fleeting moment, that you remember there are voices struggling and crying out, somewhere, even now.