16 de out. de 2025

Public Confession (Restricted) · Logbook of Insanity No. 17

Public Confession (Restricted) — Logbook of Insanity No. 17
Public Confession (Restricted) · Logbook of Insanity No. 17 — Entry: Night · Tone: Unquiet · Voice: First Person
Timestamp: Somewhere between servers and sleeplessness.

Logbook of Insanity No. 17

I was thinking tonight about this long road I’ve walked as an internet user. It started simple — emails, a few forums. Then someone invited me to Orkut. Yes, invited — because back then you needed an invitation, as if entering a secret club of strangers. I spent hours on MSN, played online RPGs. Every time my “real” life started falling apart, I would become a refugee in the virtual one. When I worked as a freelance voice actor, I had to stay online, available, waiting for possible recording requests. I passed the hours talking to people who lived far away, people I would never see, but who somehow felt closer than those outside my screen. Once, two women I only knew online created an absurd little plot. One of them claimed she was in my city. She said she had come for a reason I can’t even remember now. She spent the whole night sending me messages — first saying she was boarding, then that she had landed, and finally calling me from the “airport” asking for my address. I didn’t give it. I checked. She had never left her house. I cut contact. I never asked why. I didn’t want to know. Now, in this shiny twenty-first century, I do reading livestreams to distract myself from the fact that I still don’t have a job, that I’m once again in survival mode. During those lives, two men comment, like, and chat with each other and with me — the only ones among a crowd of silent spectators. I remembered those women, and I thought: maybe it’s the same thing again. Maybe those two aren’t two at all, but one. A stalker talking to himself through different faces, trying to draw my attention. Why? I have no idea. And, just like before, I don’t want to know.
— R.

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