Am done. I’ve thrown instagram from this mini-ipad I got as a pacifier from fanatical communists (true story). I’ve posted my last facebook post. Quora will be trickier to avoid, as there’s some quality to be had there. My blog posts go immediately to twitter, automatically.
Twitter is the platform that got Trump elected. There’s something seriously fucked up about that. So fuck off twitter. No more posts. You’ve done absolutely zero for the quality of my life. Zero. It’s just noise. Noise that gets the biggest creeps elected.
I’m 20 years old. I live alone. In a city with about 40,000 other students.
I have a cell phone that can only receive messages, but not send them. No idea how I managed, but I managed.
If I wanted to talk to someone, I had to go out.
If I wanted to read something I had to pick up a book, buy a newspaper, get a magazine.
I used to get up early every Wednesday to pick up the newspaper at a a small kiosk, at the crack of dawn. On Wednesday they had the movie reviews. It was a quality newspaper. At least back then I didn’t know any better.
I lived close to an alternative cinema. I didn’t mind going alone if I really wanted to see a movie. Weird, it’s something I would never do right now. I hate paying to see a movie these days, and I’m not as comfortable doing things alone as back then. Back then going with me was still like meeting someone I didn’t know yet. Now I’ve explored every nook and cranny of my being, and am not that fun to hang out with anymore.
There was a magazine I liked, it appeared every Tuesday. I read every damn article in it. Even the ones I wasn’t interested in, because there was nothing else. My concentration span was epic. I could sit still and study and read ten to twelve hours a day. Really. There was nothing else.
There were no comments under the articles. No status updates. No constant attention seeking. You didn’t wait around to get likes, you went for a walk, and when you got a bright smile from a girl you passed, it made your day. I still remember some of those smiles, and it’s been more than ten years.
I was happy back then.
So why not recreate those circumstances?
I didn’t blog back then either, but I did write letters to my father and some girls. So you can consider this my daily letter to you.
I’m getting quite enamored with minimalism. No decoration. Simplest of clothing. No trappings. Very repetitive cooking pattern. No hassle. Get up at the same time, go to bed at the same time. No drugs. Lots of running. Lots of push-ups. Just like back then. Keep shitty, arrogant people out of your life. And if you want to be the center of attention, you don’t write a status update, you actually get a part in a play and climb on a stage. I ended up in bars with strangers, I ended up at rather sensual private parties. No social media. Zilch. Not even a fully functioning phone.
I wear less masks.
I save more money, and though am by nature very generous, I also enjoy accumulating and cutting costs, like it’s a strategy game.
I hunt smiles again, not likes, not retweets, not instagram followers.
I don’t have to see the selfies insecure people post with their fake radiance, trying to hide how broken they are. I know some of them. Their instagram persona is radically different from the struggling, bruised, hurt people they are in reality.
I know happy people, honestly, I do, I know two truly happy people. They’re both women. One is a kindergarten teacher, the other is a lawyer. They’re both beautiful. They both have remarkably ironclad values.
Vapid external endorsements they don’t need.
They don’t tweet.