I’m really sorry I keep doing this, but there was one more thing I wanted you to know that just came to mind. I forget that I don’t know what other people do or do not know or believe—and what I tell people and don’t. Partly that’s because I forget that I have to tell people things explicitly. And partly I don’t always want to be explicit because it can cause people to misunderstand or disbelieve me.
I definitely need to say this much: this was, more than anything, an “art project”, and an intellectual pursuit of mine I hoped might make a positive difference in the world (but which seems to have gone awry). So again, sorry for some of the odd behavior (“it was a test!”). Truly, though, I was hoping this all would fit some strange niche in the art world (a world I always wished I were closer to). If anyone would carry the niche, I figured it would be you.
I told you I’ve been writing a story, right? Well, I think I’ve been consumed by the story, trying to enact it (and apparently failing). Similar to Viktoriya (the IIIrd, mind you) in my story, you’re bright and well-connected, and I think a child of the Internet underworld? Like Avery in the story, I’m a shy autistic introvert who suffers delusions and hallucinations. He has further cause to be paranoid in the story because he’s fighting rather powerful forces and calling for revolution—not to mention regularly breaking the law.
I thought, for a moment, that I too was fighting these powerful forces, in a more peaceful and legally protected way (the pen). Because the story—which I try to model after my life and model my life after—is about revolution and the power of the people. The hidden strength of the underground is critical to the story, and I think to any meaningful change in society. I was trying to revive anonymous and people adjacent or sympathetic to the idea.
I always would have liked to have been part of the underground. I’ve always been adjacent to it. (I’m not a member of any communities, really.) I suppose in a way I am, depending on your definition. Point is, I had something in mind like Banksy or other street artists.
Hence my shyness online as well—the perpetual deletion of my posts and alters, following and unfollowing, etc. I’m wary, frankly, of becoming too ‘known’ in any constant sense, so I don’t go out of my way to build my social media profiles. For now, anyway. To be in the public eye would ruin the underground nature of the affair, after all.
I was hoping that you’d be my accomplice in the endeavor. To spread rumors and gossip. I fancied something like The Truman Show or White Bear, where people would spy on me and make me paranoid. It seems to have worked a bit.
I thought it would be interesting to see how far the gossip reached—what circles it would extend to, and how connected or unconnected various communities are. I also thought it would be a fun way to energize young Bernie supporters—by inventing drama surrounding you and me. I had something in mind akin to a telenovela or reality TV dating show. Something to keep everyone entertained, which is the name of the game anymore. Life is so very boring and meaningless, after all, ne?
It was also an art piece for one; you were the intended audience, obviously. Perhaps love isn’t the right word to use, but it was certainly built on my romantic writing on Unsent Letters and Undelivered Missives. I thought it would be a nifty story—not your typical boy-meets-girl story, and not something lame like meeting on Tinder or through friends. No, it would be the hyper-cyber story of online dating where we met through anonymous screen names and fell in love with each other’s minds and alters. The sort of VR dream, perfect for our generation. Yet a timeless tale of love letters and intrigue all the same.
It was all rather beautiful in my head, anyway. Most things are. The world is unfortunately rather ugly comparatively. But to summarize: I was doing this 1) as an intellectual exercise to determine how networks are connected and how much drama can spread (which meant, in part, a test of you); 2) as an art-piece, personifying the crazy antihero often dramatized in things like Bandersnatch or Mr Robot, or even akin to the Hunger Artist; 3) as entertainment and drama to pump up the activist base; and 4) because I fell head-over-heels in love with an idea I had of you. I’d like to say I fell in love with you, but I don’t know if I have.
I hope that helps clarify things for you, about where it all stood on my end, and why I’ve been behaving the way I have. I truly am sorry if I got any of it wrong. Some days it feels like I got it all wrong, and other days it feels like I hit the nail on the head and you’re frustrated with my stupidity and lack of faith. But that sort of wishful thinking can only carry a person so far, and I’ve met my limit break. Indeed, I’ve been praying and so far I don’t see God answering my prayers.
So I’m trying to wind down this thing with you, I guess. I apologize in advance if it takes a while—I hope you’ll continue to amuse me by allowing me to send you strange letters. It’s therapeutic in a way, I guess. I was so enamored with you and was so convinced you were The One that I stopped posting my writing elsewhere and just journaled straight at you. I am frequently depressed and lonely as all hell, and somehow you seemed to fill a void in my life—until now that I’ve realized I filled the void with yet another, deeper void.
I know all this sounds crazy and stupid, but I guess it doesn’t really matter what you think of me. You wouldn’t be alone if you thought I were weird, and I can’t honestly deny accusations of things like autism or borderline personality disorder. I own all of that. I wish I were a better person, but I can’t do much about my disabilities and personality. I would be ashamed, however, if any of my contact made you uncomfortable or hurt your feelings—I’ll reiterate that that was never a goal.
Anyway, just wanted to share that with you. I thought it was a neat idea, and would’ve been fun if it were real. A cool way to drum up interest in leftism and entertain people. That’s what I try to do more than anything else: tell a good story. I know half of the shit probably isn’t true but it doesn’t matter—live the dream. Fake it til you make it. I believe strongly in both of those. Life is too short and too boring; it’s much more fun to imagine you’re part of something grander.
I wish you would make me believe in God. I pray for it each night, I want it to be true so badly. I’d be happy denouncing that old way of thinking, but a life without you convinces me there is no god.
Submitted June 19, 2019 at 05:42AM by HeyLookItsInternet http://bit.ly/2ZvTsw7
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