The Death of an Author - Digital Tombstones.

It's been a while. Long enough, in fact, that I don't quite remember what state I typically draft these entries in. I am still myself, still the same insecure and questioning me that I always am. The loneliness has subsided, however. It's strange how much can happen in a few months. I'm closer to some people than I think I've ever been. Friendships are blooming. The future seems bright, and I find it hard to wax poetic about life and humanity when my schedule is packed. On the other hand, nothing is more appealing to me than life and humanity. I remain transfixed by the phenomenon of everyone in existence and their stories. The compulsion to share mine is simply harder to harness. Which well known poet stated that "the mundane tramples nearly every unique thought"?

Tonight, I find myself staying up late, however. I am nervous about a package that should be arriving soon. Due to circumstances around my state, I really shouldn't share any more details about the contents or purpose of this package, but I will say that I wish it would arrive soon. Just the thought of opening it makes me feel too excited to sleep, and it has been over a week with no updates. To distract myself, I have begun a deep-dive of the websites I frequent, looking for accounts, both notorious and unnoticed, that are interesting in any way. Much like that famous poet said, however, the flashy accounts or famous people are not what catches my eye. The timestamps do.

I click an account. The profile is mostly blank, with a placeholder "in progress" message flashing across the screen, along with a blog entry. "Hello, visitor", it begins, "Welcome to my blog! I'm still setting things up, but feel free to look around!" A few more entries follow. Life updates, a post about a forgotten birthday, dated 2018, then.... nothing. They're gone. Less than a year between the other posts, and this one with half a decade separating the author from me. Accounts like this are a dime a dozen, mostly internet trailblazers that tried the sites for a few weeks when they were new and forgot they existed. Some are different, though.

An account of a thirteen year old, and a post about how helpless he feels. A blog post discusses the pros and cons of going to school in the morning or simply laying down and pretending to oversleep, and a timestamp of 2016. To put one more small detail of myself out in the world may be a mistake, but I will say that the situation is heartbreakingly familiar. Enough so, that for a moment I wonder if I had ever spoken to him before he simply never logged on again. I wonder if I had ever seen his artwork or messaged him. I wonder most of all where he is today. I wonder if he's sitting awake right now posting on something new, or if he swore off social media entirely. I wonder if he was lucky enough to make it to twenty as I was.

What happens when a person never opens their account again? Some websites, such as the ever-dreaded Facebook, allow their friends and family to turn it into a "memorial page". It's a simple way of making sure that the data is never destroyed, but no one can ever log in again. The term "memorial page" conjures up the image of a plaque placed on a bus stop a deceased person frequented, as though the website was never really theirs, just a place they could often be found. Other websites, such as Twitter, are notorious for accounts being used after a person's death. Celebrities can be seen Tweeting from "beyond the grave". Advertisements for new shows, comments on recent events... none of it is them, really. It may align with their beliefs, but the person is gone, and unlike a memorial page, there's nothing reverent implied and nothing particular done. If you have no one to post for you, your words die with you.

An account that has not posted since 2019 still follows you. Their last post is about having a dentist's visit the next day, and the comments are full of people expressing their sympathy for the family, as recently as a few days ago. Your hand hesitates over the block button before finally pressing it. It feels heartless, but somehow cleansing. Like an exorcism. Like throwing away the last bouquet from a wake.

My uncle died three years ago at the start of the pandemic, on my 17th birthday. I'm not sure if I have discussed it openly before, but it was part of what plunged me into the obsession I have with self-reflection. I felt like I barely knew him, and yet so much of myself seems to be tied back to him. Shortly after his death, I became overly aware of a strange phenomenon of social media. Some time after a post, be it days or months or years, it will show it to you again, almost like a time capsule. I'd never thought about the memories before. A photo of a selfie from a month ago, or a sandwich I bought yesterday, or a dog I saw a year ago... none of it was particularly emotional. It was a feature I never noticed. This was until my uncle passed. 

Those who have lost a loved one know that there is nothing people love to do more than post their sympathy on the pages of the family. For months, my account was flooded with photos of my uncle, stories people had where he had changed their lives, and graphic details of the way he died. It was my first real loss, and I didn't know how to handle it. I was stuck in grief in a way that I had never experienced before, and all I wanted was some peace and time to think about why I felt like this. Confused, angry, and sick to my stomach. That was all I could feel. Over time, the posts dwindled, and I felt more secure in the fact that I could freely grieve. I had space. I didn't need to avoid social media anymore. For most people, this was when they started to feel better. The attention and smothering was supposed to help you, and my reaction was an outlier. But now, at last, I could start to heal.

Until the memories started. The week leading up to my birthday I noticed photos of myself with gifts, and I felt all of that confusing, unprocessed grief all over again. I knew what was about to happen, but I couldn't do anything. Photos of my uncle began flooding my page, and I was recommended post after post from his memorial account as they gained traction on the anniversary of his death. It was terrifying for reasons that I wasn't able to place at the time, so I logged out of my account and I have not looked back. I'm still not sure if I'm ever going to be ready to look again.

How many people fall into the category of my uncle? The author has died, and the posts are left to those that loved them to treat like scripture, as if they posted that meme knowing that one day their loved ones would look at it and cry with sorrow instead of laughter or that photo of a meal so their sister could say, "he always loved that restaurant". How many are in the camp that I fall under? Something so painful is associated with the account that they feel the need to leave as soon as possible and not look back, but know that someday they may want to see it all again, once the pain has passed.

I'm sure the majority of those abandoned accounts fall under a third category; Those that have lost their login information and feel as though it isn't worth the effort to find it. Still, a part of me will always wonder. I'll always fill in the story in my own mind, even if I'm sure I'll never guess. I'll always crave that knowledge. It's enough to make me dig out my old password managers.

Until next time, I would like to say that I am alright. I'm not gone, and I will post again someday. Maybe not quite so late next time, maybe better worded than this, and less informal. Or maybe my next post will be an obituary. Here Lies Joseph - and what would kill me? Who can say? If it happens, you'll never know. There's something almost terrifying about that.