A Profile. Not a Person.

My world has shrunk. Physically, it is limited to one cell of a room with one window that brings in sunshine for a few hours even during the long summer days. In reality, it has extended into the virtual realm. I am connected to hundreds of people virtually - through internet, through Facebook. Most I know: a very few real friends, family, collegues, mostly fake 'friends'. Many I have not met recently, in months, even years. A few, very few, I have not met at all. But I know them all, and it keeps me 'connected'.

Last night, I deactivated my account. This came as a surprise to a few since I virtually lived on Facebook. I am (still) a Facebook addict. So much that about two hours after deactivating my account, I activated it again. After checking through the usual channels, I deactivated it once more, with a firm warning to self, that this time it will be for a while. It is of course a temporary move. I just want to desensitize myself, cure myself of the addicition and dependency to Facebook.

I woke up to find an alarmed text from my brother, asking me to return, so we could stay in touch. Logged in to Gmail to find an angry one-liner from my 14 year old sister (who is nearly a decade younger to me), "One question, What the Fuck is your Problem?".

I do not like being on the defensive. I do not see why I have to explain myself to everyone. My reasons are my own, as is my life.

I like Facebook. It enables me to stay in touch with people all over the world. People I would not have the chance to keep in touch with otherwise. Some, it may not be possible to meet anymore. It also shows me insights to persons; they share themselves there. It means being with people, without having to be with them.

It is also an alternate form of human contact. Sometimes, it is not a voluntary decision to stay away from the crowds. My social circle is quite small. It is mostly people from school that I know and meet. They are all mostly busy. Where I live, at the end of civilisation, I have no friends. Ergo, an outing usually means venturing out to the City, and that costs money. When unemployed, the best option is to lay low. Hence, the only viable solution is to find indoor activities, and find virtual human contact. So I spend most of my time in my cell, online, waiting for the human race all over the world to spare some of their precious time.

But it is too precious. All they have time for, is a 'poke', a comment, a 'like'. If they can really be provoked into a proper human reaction, it is to lecture, to advise, to reprimand, to tell you how to do things, how not to do things. They can read the signs, but they do not like to respond. They want to share the laughter, and spare no opportunity to pass on the wisdom they had better save for their progeny. They all have a little to contribute about the "should" and are very apt at turning deaf, dumb and blind to "is".

In a colourful mix of dozens of friends, family and acquaintances, the lines of tolerance are drawn at happiness, laughter, jokes and smiles. "Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone." I do not appreciate that. I do not want fair weather friends. I do not want fake relationships. I hate this pretence. Because I am not like that. I do cry with people in distress. I do feel and hurt on their behalf. If I read a SOS message between the lines, I do send a message and find out if there is something I can do, somehow I can help, not merely advise on "how to live your life". So sick it all made me, so weary I was of waiting for sincerity to turn up, that I decided it was time to take a step back.

I thought about the time before The Social Network and realised that if someone truly wanted me, they should make an effort. Find me. Seek me. Phone me, text me, email me, write to me, get in touch with me, come for me. So far, the response I have had is from a 14 year old, thousands of miles away who feels I have acted unjustly and 'disappeared', as if I 'never was', and that I am not acting how a 'real Sibling should'. And one concerned one from my brother, also thousands of miles away, an email asking me to stay in touch please and to say what is wrong.

I have tried to explain. I do not like this pretense, this farce. I want people to treat me as 'person', not a 'profile' again. A person with feelings, with problems, with preferences, with sadness and joy, with tears and laughter. I want to learn to reach out to the real people in the real world again. Learn to rely on only a select few.

I want to be human again.

Black Hole.

There is gravity. There is a pull. It is impossible to escape. It keeps coming back. It keeps sucking in.

It is dark; so dark. It comes slowly, creeps up, engulfs. It is always there, lurking in the back - waiting. And it calls. It whispers. Softly, so very softly. Insistent. Soft, but strong. Too strong. It cannot be fought. Only run away from. Every stumble makes it stronger.

There is only temporary relief. A Mindlessness. A blocking of view - but not closing of eyes, for darkness resides behind the veil of closed eyes. Sleep is worst. It is a cruel necessity that allows the darkness to take over - pushed into the abyss of torment where demons devour and chase.

The heart. The poor heart. Shackled in cold, dread and fear. Beating - crying out, loud - to no avail. The heartbeat, like a war drum; pounding, raising alarm. Alas, the only ears the siren reaches are deafened by the screams and wailing from within. It is futile. These are deaf, others are blind.

Deserter: Courage. Abandoned friend in the hour of utmost need. Why and how are not answered. Prayers and begging are wasted.

It cannot be explained, it cannot be shared. It would be easier to bear if there was someone to reach out to, to understand. Someone to take the extended, begging hand. To step forward and pull at the drowning weight. But no, there isn't. There is no lifeline. There is only shouts - of encouragement, cliches of hope and greatness. But their effect is not soothing. Only safety lies in silence - where there is no need to say or explain or pleading to understand. And in distance.

There are also gurgling noises, of the quagmire swallowing.

It is a lost battle. There is relief in giving up. There is a place beyond pain, where there is only acceptance.

There is comfort and companionship in the blanket of darkness.

'Hilarious'? Sad, Really.

There is a new application doing rounds on Facebook. It invites people to see what they'll look like in the future.

Strangely, everyone's future seems to look the same: there is only one impression of everyone's face. Without exception.

There is also an automated comment that appears when someone is tempted to witness their evolution from this side of the time line: "hahah mine is hilarious!!! check yours out :)".

I suppose, since it appears quite often on profiles, and randomly selects 'Friends' to pass on to, it is popular by choice. 

What is stranger than the popularity of the of the application is the fact that people do actually find it funny. 'Likes' and '=D' appear on the link. Morbid sense of humour.

But let's be generous. Let's make excuses for people. Perhaps they find it funny that the same face appears no matter who clicks on the link. Or even that the 'cutting-edge technology' does not differenciate between the genders, blending 'future' male and female faces into the one and same lined face, toothless mouth and balding head.

But is it really funny? 'Hilarious'? No. It is not.

What is being laughed at, is old age. What is being humiliated is an old man's life. A life that is mirrored on his face. A face etched with worry lines. Lines cut into the papery skin, the fleshless features. Features that seem locked in the act of weeping, with faults marking the perpetual journey of tears from the anguished eyes. Haunting eyes. Pained eyes. Pleading eyes. Bruised, red-rimmed eyes. Eyes uttering the cry that is not heard from the toothless mouth. A mouth that frames a ghost of a smile. A smile that may have once appeared atop a strong, proud chin. All reduced to humiliation. 

Yes, "See What You'll Look In The Future". Old Age visits most of us. And fortunes turn tables too. 

One Wonders.

From Wikipedia:

'As of 16 February 2011, there were over 156 million public blogs in existence.'

It is hard for me to imagine what 156 million actually looks like. The magnitude of the number does register, it seems 'big', but the physical reality seems vague and the mind begs to seek a visual reference. And yet, the numerical is proof enough somehow - 156 million is a lot of blogs.

What does a hundred and fifty-six million blogs mean?

It definitely means a lot of information - what sort of information is perhaps a rhetoric question; I doubt if it can be categorised at all. 

It means the need to express, the need to communicate, to share, to reach out. 

Arbitrarily assigning one soul per blog, 156 million people have a lot to say, assuming also that their blogs are active. But hasn't the need to communicate always been there? People have been known to keep diaries and journals - to catalogue their thoughts and to contain 

their emotions. Then why the need to 'publish' online? Perhaps the vague hope to attract an audience, to elicit response(s)?

It also means access to internet - that a lot of people still don't have. 

Perhaps most of the blogs are merely a form of catharsis; perhaps they do not have the need or potential to reach out and appeal to a greater audience. I wonder about the ones that can. Somehow, the print media is still more accessible than the digital. Do these blogs limit their authors? To be satisfied with virtual publishing and not pushing for a greater goal? Or does it polish their abilities?

I wonder whether the dream of becoming an author dies slowly. 

I also wonder about the ones who do not have internet access. It bothers me - this unfair digital divide. I wonder how many potential bloggers make up the numbers of the non-digital-world. I wonder how many authors stay buried in those not-yet-bloggers. 

I wonder about the people who have a lot [and more] to say, the need to reach out - and do not. I wonder if we are evolving into a species with less and even lesser time for each other - so less that more and more people will prefer virtual communications to real ones. Is it not strange that we spend more time staring into virtual windows to the digital world than the real windows to gaze out? 

I wonder if the 156 million blogs herald a sort of loneliness, the one that can be experienced in a crowd, say of 7000 million or so.