“It’s this third person that’s not existed to any other generation [...] It’s in your head all the time.”
For as long as I can remember, I have felt a hyper sense of awareness of who might be watching and what they might be thinking. There was no particular moment when I started to feel this way. Instead, working to always watch myself from an outside perspective feels like a precondition of being inside of my own mind.
Social media—it's just the market's answer to a generation that demanded to perform, so the market said, here: Perform everything to each other, all the time, for no reason. It's prison. It's horrific. It's performer and audience melded together. What do we want more than to lie in our bed at the end of the day and just watch our life as a satisfied audience member? I know very little about anything. But what I do know is that if you can live your life without an audience, you should do it.”
It’s the future now, and everything cool on the internet is about God.
I get why people are acting so weird online, why the fashionable form of posting feels in between an invocation, a shitpost, a chant, a sermon, and a poem carved into a streaked headstone. ... In the mid 2010s, ambiguity died online—not of natural causes, it was hunted and killed.
[C]onfessionalism became a popular way to construct one’s identity, and the internet was the place to do it.
The spirit of stylized half-truths is still in-tact, and now that we know the consequences of our sins existing online forever, it’s easy to see why making a myth of yourself feels like the only way forward.
At the heart of all this motion is a lust for crawling through someone else’s ambiguity, in staring at a post or profile for longer than the machine’s trained you to, in the toothsome frustration of trying to figure out what’s a revelation, what’s a dark joke, and what’s just the result of a chemically imbalanced brain and an eternally available keyboard.
Godposting, in its buggy, abstract elegance, started out hacked and corrupted, which provides a buffer to its recuperation. It’ll keep getting buggier, but it’ll still eventually flatten out into souvenirs—trucker hats that say God’s Favorite in Times New Roman and screenshot memories of when what’s no longer transgressive still was.
“Each time we say “IRL,” “face-to-face,” or “in person” to mean connection without screens, we frame what is “real” or who is a person in terms of their geographic proximity rather than other aspects of closeness — variables like attention, empathy, affect, erotics, all of which can be experienced at a distance. We should not conceptually preclude or discount all the ways intimacy, passion, love, joy, pleasure, closeness, pain, suffering, evil and all the visceral actualities of existence pass through the screen. “Face to face” should mean more than breathing the same air”