A long time ago when this neurosis hit so I wrote in a journal about how you technically aren’t ever alone. Which is the funniest thing, seeing as that’s what likely motivates any sort of vibrating around, whether with friends or net-bodies.
Where proximity is only a physical thing. Same moon to look at, after all.
Even if we never talk again and I never read your messages, and I’ll never see you nor know your form, one can at least understand that we’re connected in this silence. Even if you despise me.
I was thinking about opening up a nosurf.club forum to collect like-minded individuals who don’t own any other social media, but upon reflection I don’t think it’d help.
Maybe it’d be a off-boarding ramp, but I don’t think a forum can help unless you have a mental shift.
Maybe another’s mental shift comes from reading these imaginary forum posts, but as with any forum those who are terminally online fill the posts and next thing you know it’s the blind leading blind.
The truth is right outside, few blocks away: three lane highways and roadkill as sanctuary; though indifferent to the silent one. More accurately, it’s when you’re the roadkill. Becoming a favourite companion of Death most often so as to wonder how you’d like to spend a final day.
If I died tomorrow – these as my last words – maybe they’d mean something then. If you died tomorrow – these as your last readings – maybe you’d wish to read something else. It’s quite the possibility: some aren’t lucky to make it past 23. Deathbed regrets.
Hearing the heartbeat so one could bother to say most of the sayings don’t say much of anything facing against a void or a portal unknown. A Departure nevertheless.
I stopped liking things on neocities because I didn’t want to reinforce the skinner-box which makes one forget you’re going to die. That you shouldn’t care whether some stranger likes what you’re up to anyway, but if there’s something to exchange. I tried by engaging with comments more as equals hope though I also understand wanting to be left alone. I understand, there’s nothing to say nor exchange. I guess compassion really is open silence, however long ago thought about.
Deep down I wanted to have meaning in a deafened world and maybe the first step is to say it out loud just to see what it does. At least share how I am a flesh-bone bound toward a graveyard the same as anyone else.
Lately I’ve been thinking maybe it isn’t so bad to feel so horrible if you let it. However the tears render – however out-of-place for an adult – so at least serves as evidence you’re not severing every part to others’ expectations and forgettings. Blood drippings on a fresh-pressed suit before conference, scattering ashes on a beach day to come.
Disease destroys the body but lifts the veil: everything comes as silence when you see some withered arm bones.
And one may come to appreciate goodbyes, because it’s what makes the hello valuable. You can’t be sure how many hellos are left, honestly. Such anxiety makes you think maybe you should be subservient to the new social form the net is; but I’ll settle for half-glances from neighbors and folding my napkin after some dinner for one. Washing plates while the sunset glimmers something God would want you to know, if you’d ever see it.