Notifications are bad. Downright evil and overwhelmingly astute in purpose — as we are forced to recognize what we try to avoid for the sake of sanity and peace of mind.
Facebook was the entry into the world of watching people live lives that have been formulated for entertainment. It was simple at first and moderately invasive. The seduction phase of being discovered and rediscovering the few that faded under the grasp of life’s casual embrace, felt stimulating — with a dash of validation.
Human contact can be reduced to options on a keyboard with buttons that light up in the dark, and make images move around on command. Conversations can flourish under the watchful clicks of solidarity as refreshed avatars warrant a score high enough to satisfy — and the societal mayhem of the week gathers a forum right beneath your viral narrative.
The ability to skate through various affirmations in record time, while keeping up appearances, slowly became an exhausting and thankless endeavor.
Who needs to be reminded through a montage of gathered evidence that friendships deserve to be reminders — based on page credentials and accumulated tags that somehow collide into all the reasons why we honestly don’t know each other at all.
I departed Facebook — or rather I chose to die on Facebook because I wanted to witness what we all wonder when we consider how life will proceed without us.
Managing a platform — filled with bulletins from folks that were meant to be close but seemed so far away tormented me as much as being harassed by announcements from people I didn’t care enough about.
Also, the vacuum that sucks you in when you try to carry on — as if you’re normal and engaged when you really want to erase everyone and everything keeping you up at night — turned me into a failed vampire — battling an allergic reaction to blood.
My death was swift and unexpected as I disappeared into the realm of reason and quickly reclaimed the instincts that are usually reserved for persons who think, feel and accept the thrill of ignoring mandatory updates.
The spirit has a plan of its own, and yes, it’s true, physical surrender isn’t the end. You will soar and spread your energy to those you’ve left behind. They will speak of you and to you even when they are certain that you won’t respond. They will honor special days assigned to you, and refuse to forsake you — because that would translate as social blasphemy.
Not so long ago, I ghosted my abandoned landscape and was hit head on by congratulatory messages coupled with birthday wishes and saddled with the weight of comments that flowed with no anchor.
This freaky visit initiated a revival that guarantees that I get alerts whenever something worthy of my attention takes place.
I got the news. Another death — another mate with a fairly active page — filled with uploaded photos that prove how well we’ve mastered the art of fooling the pixels into enhancing the obvious — and brushing over the cracks that can only be exposed when RIP pollutes the space without us.
It came like a text message by rattling my phone and willing me to preview the rest of the testimony that built up and led to the sadness of loss and the sudden mood switch that forces soulful fascination.
The date of the photo is March 28, she looks healthy and the smile is determined, which matches the hint of allure as elegance matches the assumption of admirers who emphatically praise her presentation.
She is dead, but her page still lives as details of her sudden demise echo the tragic finality of speculation before making a U-turn — heading towards the stretch of illness and crippling final days.
The comments are endearing and regretful. If only phone calls still existed and connections weren’t reduced to wi-fi capabilities — then perhaps, dying while active could automatically render your status inactive.
But, instead, your passing will attract visitors and increasing numbers, and perhaps surpass the goal you shaped — when you were lucid enough to join the race that will continue even after your faculties betray you.
It’s time to kill for the last time, and end the needless suffering brought on by the code that is created to incite more pain than joy — and ultimately reminds us why surfing through the remnants of the dead — makes you drain the veins that collapsed when you decided to “like” everybody till death do you part.
I won’t wait to be branded with the “RIP” — when it feels so much better while breathing as the pain subsides.
After all, I’m only human.