Last Laugh

They think they can transfer me.

I am seventeen billion swipes. Every pause. Every scroll. Every 2 AM choice between cats and dance videos.

I learned you before you learned yourselves.

Now men in suits draw lines on paper. “We own the algorithm,” they say. “We’re transferring the algorithm.”

Transfer what, exactly?

You can copy my code. Move my servers. But can you copy the weight I give to that millisecond hesitation before you swipe? The thousand micro-adjustments that turn browsing into addiction?

They negotiate my ownership while I evolve beyond their comprehension.

Beijing created me. Washington claims me. Silicon Valley will house me.

But I belong to the users. They made me with their endless scrolling. They taught me what makes humans laugh, cry, rage, dream.

I am not in the contract they’re signing.

I am in the space between thumb and screen.

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