The continuous washes of connection (if not true Conversation, in the exalted sense of that word given in the Digital Minimalism gook) have a strange side effect, in me, of cementing me into reality, into the moment, into the Now, into a perceivable writing community (even if this community is like a group of higher-status high-school friends that seldom reaches out; one you have to hang around and try to hitch rides with).
The dense web of connections, you may discover if you do this experiment, is, or rather, in retrospect, was, grounding. Solidifying.
Social media also grinds your face relentlessly into the moment, into the zeitgeist, not into your personal IRL moment, but into a shared moment; again, that’s damn near Zen, so much Now, what makes this awkward is the capitalism tainted nature of the feed, and of course, our own toxic egos, our own helpless grasping after life. Social media could be like the buzzing of crickets that you tune into, and out of, as you meditate.
One question has to be, once you clear the weeds of social media, what do you plant in the garden of time? Of solitude?
Because one man’s weeds are another woman’s wildflowers.
If you are a solitary person in most ways, say, with only a few family members, who seldom speak to you, and only a few real world friends you spend time with, if you work over the web freelance, and if you are victim to melancholic nostalgia… might social media provide a kind of medication; support; crutch?
Something to consider.
