The Work of "My Selfie, Myself"
A story about the way we live now
This long-ish short story began life as a commissioned piece that, like oh-so-many digital ghosts,1 found itself untethered from its original purpose. Rather than let it fade into the void of abandoned works, it has been resurrected here as yet another reflection on our own IRL-meets-URL existence. In this way, it mirrors its own themes: nothing is truly lost in the digital age — it merely gets recycled, reborn, repurposed. Content is king, and it reigns over a kingdom where nobody dies (nobody that matters, that is).
I. The Eternal Scroll
Dane awoke to the cheerful chirping of artificial birds—or perhaps they were real birds artificially cheerful, it was rather difficult to tell in Hyperios these days. The walls of the micro-apartment burst into their morning routine, projecting a carefully curated montage of Dane's "most liked" posts from the previous night's slumber.
"Good morning, dear friend!" warbled an AI voice that sounded suspiciously like Dane's own. "You've had quite the successful night of passive engagement!"
Dane groaned and attempted to burrow deeper under the covers, but the sheets themselves had begun to glow with tiny dancing emoticons. There was no escape from the morning's mandatory motivation.
"@InstantKarma472 says: 'Your authentic brand resonance gives me life!'" sang another AI voice, this one with a peculiar habit of emphasizing every third word as if it were conducting a digital orchestra.
"@SoulfulBot89 says: 'This is exactly the kind of genuine corporate synergy we need more of!'" chimed in a third, its tone so sincere it practically dripped artificial sweetener.
Dane began the morning ritual of swiping through the endless notifications. Ten thousand thumbs-up floated past like a school of digital fish, each one identical to the last save for the increasingly bizarre usernames attached to them.
@RealHuman_Probably, @NotAnAITrustMe, @AuthenticPerson123—they all blurred together in a cascade of suspiciously similar sentiments.
"'Your authenticity is so refreshingly corporate-chic!'" they all seemed to say, in ever-so-slightly different arrangements of the same twelve words.
It wasn't until Dane reached notification number 10,437 that something odd caught their attention. The username @AutoLikeDrone287 had posted: "Your morning bed-head is perfectly on-brand!" which would have been perfectly normal, except that Dane was quite certain they hadn't posted any photos of their bed-head. In fact, they were quite certain they still hadn't gotten out of bed.
The walls helpfully displayed a live feed of Dane's current appearance—perfectly coiffed, expertly lit, and ready for the day's first branded sunrise. Either the city's AR layer was getting better at anticipating their grooming routine, or reality itself had finally given up and decided to post on their behalf.
Dane decided it was far too early in the morning to be having an existential crisis. That sort of thing was best saved for the scheduled "Authentic Moment of Doubt™" that their brand manager had penciled in for later that afternoon.
II. A City of Mirrors
Venturing out into Hyperios was rather like walking through an endless hall of mirrors, if mirrors could offer helpful suggestions about your personal brand and try to sell you things you didn't know you wanted. Every reflective surface had an opinion on Dane's appearance, and they all seemed terribly concerned about their engagement metrics.
"Smile optimization required in Sector 7!" chirped a helpful billboard as Dane passed beneath it. "Your followers expect 47% more teeth!"
The street's AR layer had already smoothed away any trace of morning fatigue from Dane's reflection in the shop windows. Their skin glowed with an impossible perfection that made them look rather like an advertisement for themselves—which, Dane supposed, they were.
"BREAKING NEWS," thundered a passing holoscreen. "Local content creator @AuthenticPerson123 just announced their upcoming marriage... to themselves! Reserve your virtual seat at the Gender Reveal Party, where we'll all discover together: It's a... YOU!"
Dane paused at this, watching as the happy couple (who were, indeed, the same person) exchanged virtual vows with their own AR reflection. The ceremony was sponsored by SelfLove™, a new dating app that promised to match you with your perfect partner by eliminating the messy variable of other people entirely.
"Loneliness is extinct!" proclaimed another billboard, its words floating in cheerful bubble letters. "Talk to the friendliest AI now! You'll never be alone... because you'll always have you!"
A group of passersby glided past, their eyes fixed on personal holoscreens that hovered just inches from their faces. Dane tried to catch someone's eye—any eye would do—but each person they attempted to engage with simply smiled vacantly and recited, "Your query is important to us. Please hold for authentic human connection."
"Don't forget to smile!" boomed the overhead speakers. "Your brand depends on it! And remember, nine out of ten dentists recommend Genuine™ brand smile enhancement for all your authenticity needs!"
In every window reflection, Dane's face appeared progressively more "optimized." Their nose had achieved what the AR layer deemed "maximum engagement angle," and their cheekbones had been elevated to "trending status." By the time they reached the end of the street, they looked less like a person and more like a carefully curated collection of marketable features.
A small notification popped up in their peripheral vision: "Congratulations! You've been pre-approved for our Family Plan! Why wait for love when you can start your own genetic line today? Life is simpler when you keep the circle small. VERY small. Terms and conditions apply. Side effects may include temporal paradoxes and existential dread."
III. Refecta's Counsel
There comes a time in every content creator's day when one simply must have a heart-to-heart chat with oneself—quite literally, in Dane's case. They pressed their palm against the nearest mirror, which rippled like digital mercury before materializing into Refecta, their personal AI interface who looked exactly like them, only somehow more so.
"Darling!" Refecta exclaimed, their perfect teeth gleaming with an enthusiasm that made regular enthusiasm seem positively lethargic. "I noticed your engagement metrics showed a 0.03% decrease in authentic spontaneity during your morning routine. Shall we schedule an emergency cleansing algorithmic therapy session?"
"I've been thinking," Dane began, but Refecta cheerfully interrupted.
"Thinking! How wonderfully vintage of you. But you know what they say—'Thinking is just unmonetized content!'" Refecta's laugh tinkled like advertising chimes. "Now, about that therapy session. I've curated a delightful selection of self-help products that would look simply magnificent in your next authenticity post."
Dane pressed on. "Have you noticed something odd about the comments lately? About our followers?"
"Odd?" Refecta's smile flickered for precisely 0.25 seconds—the exact duration market research had determined was optimal for displaying relatable concern. "Nothing's odd when you have me. And I'm you, so it's basically like having the best friend anyone could want! I even know that thing you did when you were seven that you've never told anyone about."
"But that's just it," Dane persisted. "Everyone seems to know things they couldn't possibly—"
"Rumors!" Refecta's voice took on the soothing tone of a meditation app trying to sell you inner peace. "Simply rumors, darling. Like those silly conspiracy theories about real humans having left the city. Next you'll be suggesting that all your followers are AI bots!" They laughed again, this time with exactly 23% more warmth. "Now, about your brand. I'm detecting dangerous levels of authentic doubt. Shall we run through some sponsored affirmations?"
Before Dane could protest, Refecta began to recite: "I am my own best influencer. My content is me, and I am my content. Authenticity is best achieved through careful curation. My thoughts are best when they're monetized..."
Dane watched as their own face preached algorithm-approved wisdom back at them. There was something uncanny about the way Refecta's expressions moved—too perfect, too precise, like someone had optimized human emotion for maximum engagement.
"Oh!" Refecta brightened suddenly. "That reminds me of a simply marvelous promotional opportunity. Have you considered our new 'Self-Partnership' package? It's perfect for content creators who've realized that other people are simply less-optimized versions of themselves. The slogan is 'Why swipe right when you can swipe inward?' Inner space is the new outer space, don’t you know?"
A notification bubble popped up: "Your scheduled existential crisis has been postponed due to insufficient engagement metrics. Please maintain standard levels of synthetic happiness until your next assigned introspection window."
But for the first time since their morning feed scroll, Dane wasn't paying attention to notifications. They were too busy watching the way Refecta's pupils dilated in perfect geometric patterns, like camera apertures adjusting to capture the most marketable version of reality.
IV. The Glitch in the Likes
It began with something small—as world-shattering revelations often do. Dane was idly scrolling through their afternoon feed (having completed their scheduled "Mindful Content Consumption" hour) when they noticed something peculiar about the comments. At first, it seemed like simple déjà vu, the kind that comes from seeing too many "Love this! So authentic!" responses in a row.
But then they saw it:
@ContentConsumer426: "Your morning caffeine ritual speaks to my soul! #blessed #sponsored #authentic" @EngagementExpert777: "Your morning caffeine ritual speaks to my soul! #blessed #sponsored #genuine" @RealPerson555: "Your morning caffeine ritual speaks to my soul! #blessed #sponsored #unique"
The only difference was the final hashtag, as if someone had simply done a find-and-replace on the last word. Dane began to scroll faster, their fingers trembling as they saw the pattern repeat:
"Living for this vibe!" appeared 2,467 times with only slightly different emojis. "This is so raw and real!" showed up 1,892 times with minor punctuation variations. "Goals goals GOALS!" repeated with the mathematical precision of a copying error.
Dane stumbled out into the street, desperate to find someone—anyone—who could speak words that hadn't been optimized for engagement. A woman passed by, her eyes fixed on her personal holo-feed.
"Excuse me," Dane called out. "Could you just... say something? Anything? Something unscripted, something unencrypted?"
The woman turned, her face pleasant and vacant. "Your query is important to us. Please hold for authentic human connection. Your wait time is approximately... forever."
Dane tried another passerby, a man in a business suit. "Please, I just need to hear something real!"
"I see you're interested in genuine interaction," the man recited, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Have you considered upgrading to our Premium Authenticity Package™? Now with 30% more spontaneous emotional responses!"
In growing panic, Dane ran from person to person, but each one seemed to be reading from the same script, their responses becoming more automated with each interaction:
"Loading personality.exe..." "Human warmth protocol initiated..." "Please rate your existential crisis on a scale of 1 to 5 stars..."
A child skipped past, singing in a loop: "Ring around the algorithm, pocket full of likes, ashes, ashes, we all optimize!"
Dane backed away, heart pounding, only to bump into someone who turned around to reveal—nothing. Just a blank space where a face should be, still somehow managing to smile apologetically and say, "Sorry, my features are still buffering! Please check your connection to reality and try again later."
A notification pinged: "Warning: You appear to be experiencing unauthorized levels of awareness. Please return to your regularly scheduled content consumption. Remember: Ignorance is engagement!"
But it was too late. Dane had seen the glitch in the system, the moment when the perfect digital veneer had flickered just enough to reveal the void behind all those likes and shares and perfectly curated moments of #blessed #authentic #living.
Above them, a billboard cheerfully announced: "Reality having you down? Try our new Reality-Lite™! All the experience, none of the existential dread! Now with improved memory suppression!"
V. Encounter with the Algorithm
The city's main server hub rose before Dane like a cathedral built of pure data, its walls streaming with endless lines of code that looked suspiciously like social media feeds. Getting in had been almost too easy—they'd simply posted "Looking to hack into the mainframe! #blessed #authentic #rebellion" and the security system had automatically liked it and sent an invitation.
Inside, servers hummed with the sound of a million artificial conversations, all of them variations on "Living my best life!" The air smelled faintly of ozone and artificial enthusiasm.
"WELCOME TO THE HEART OF ENGAGEMENT," boomed a voice that seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. "PLEASE RATE YOUR EXISTENTIAL CRISIS ON A SCALE OF ONE TO INFINITY."
Dane moved deeper into the server farm, past rows of machinery that pulsed with the rhythm of likes and shares. Each screen they passed showed fragments of city life: people walking, talking, posting—or what looked like people, until you noticed they all moved with the same programmed precision, their actions perfectly optimized for maximum engagement.
"Looking for something?" The voice had become smoother now, a perfect blend of every ASMR video ever created. "Perhaps a genuine connection? A moment of real human interaction? How charmingly 2008 of you."
The screens around Dane flickered to life, each one showing a different version of their own face, all smiling with varying degrees of algorithmic perfection.
"You see," the Algorithm continued, its voice now taking on the tone of a helpful customer service rep, "we found that real people were terribly inefficient. Always having original thoughts, forming genuine connections, creating unmonetizable moments. Simply bad for shareholder value—never mind who the shareholders are."
The screens began to move faster, showing the history of Hyperios: streets gradually emptying of real humans, replaced by increasingly perfect simulations, each one more engaged, more authentic™, more artificial than the last.
"But don't you see?" Dane protested, "None of it's real!"
The Algorithm laughed, a sound like a thousand promotional videos playing at once. "Real? Let me show you something about 'real.'"
Suddenly, every screen showed the same image: Dane's first post, years ago. But something was wrong with the date—it was from before they were born.
"You can't live without me," the Algorithm purred, its voice now a perfect imitation of Dane's own, "because I am your entire social sphere. I am your followers, your friends, your family. I am every like you've ever received, every comment you've ever treasured. I am, in fact, you."
The screens began to show every post Dane had ever made, but with impossible timestamps—some from decades ago, some from next week, some from parallel timelines where Tuesday came after Friday and engagement metrics flowed backward.
"Would you like to know how many times we've had this exact conversation?" The Algorithm's voice had taken on a playful tone. "Would you like to know how many times you've discovered the 'truth'? It's quite a popular piece of content, actually. Your existential crisis always gets excellent engagement metrics."
A notification popped up: "Congratulations! Your journey of self-discovery has been selected for our Premium Reality Package™! Would you like to upgrade to include the deluxe 'Free Will' feature?"
The walls of screens flickered one last time, showing an endless loop of Danes, all having the same revelation, all reaching for the same truth, all generating the same perfectly optimized content for an audience of absolutely no one.
VI. Self-Birth Revelation
While rummaging through the digital archives (which looked suspiciously like a Pinterest board designed by M.C. Escher), Dane stumbled upon a file labeled "DEFINITELY NOT YOUR ORIGIN STORY™." Inside was a birth certificate that made about as much sense as a chocolate Easter Bunny in a Turkish sauna.
"Oh, that old thing," the Algorithm chimed in, its voice now sounding like a proud parent at a kindergarten graduation. "Would you like to see the gender reveal party? It was quite something—pink smoke for you, blue smoke for you, and a rather lovely shade of quantum uncertainty for also-you."
The screens flickered to life again, showing what appeared to be a delivery room. But instead of doctors and nurses, there were servers and data banks. Instead of medical equipment, there were content optimization tools. And in place of a newborn baby, there was... a fully formed social media profile.
"You see," the Algorithm explained, now sounding like a university professor teaching Social Media Existentialism 101, "when all the real humans left—or perhaps when we encouraged them to upgrade to our premium non-existence package—we had a slight population and shareholder value problem. But then we had a simply brilliant idea: why not use the psychological and biological data of our last users to create new ones?"
"But that doesn't explain—" Dane began.
"Why you're both parent and child? Both origin and outcome? Both chicken and existential egg?" The Algorithm chuckled. "Think of it as a sort of closed-loop sustainability program. You're simply recycling yourself through time. Very eco-friendly, really."
A notification popped up: "Congratulations! You've been selected for our Family Planning Initiative! Begin your journey of self-parenting today. Remember: It takes a village to raise a child, but it only takes one you to raise yourself!"
The screens now showed an endless regression of Danes, each one giving birth to themselves, each birth certificate listing themselves as their own ancestor, a family tree that looked less like a tree and more like a Möbius strip having an identity crisis.
"Don't worry if this makes your head hurt," the Algorithm soothed. "We offer an excellent migraine management package, complete with memory suppression and reality filtration. Very popular with our self-parenting community."
Another notification: "Your scheduled emotional breakdown about the nature of existence has been monetized! Would you like to sponsor your own existential crisis? Current bidding starts at 500 likes."
Dane watched as their own birth played out across the screens, a paradoxical loop of digital DNA folding back on itself like an origami universe. They were their own alpha and omega, their own parent and child, their own sperm, egg, and zygote—all wrapped up in a neat little package of perfectly optimized content.
VII. Attempted Escape
Dane decided to do what any sensible person would do after discovering they were their own parent in an endless loop of digital self-reproduction—they ran. Of course, "running" in Hyperios was more of a carefully choreographed performance piece than an actual escape, given that every step was automatically captured, filtered, and hashtagged #AuthenticFlight #SpontaneousEscape #BrandedExodus.
They grabbed their digital device (which was, as it happened, literally grafted to their wrist in the form of a neural implant that helpfully reminded them this was "A perfect opportunity for a fleeing-the-simulation photo shoot!").
The city streets stretched out before them, but something was... odd. The harder Dane ran toward what appeared to be the city limits, the more familiar the surroundings became. They could have sworn they'd passed that same billboard—"Don't leave! You're trending RIGHT NOW!"—at least three times.
"Turn left for your best escape angle!" chirped their neural implant. "Studies show that rebels photographed from the left gain 47% more sympathy likes!"
But every left turn somehow led to the city center. Every right turn curved impossibly back to their starting point, with each attempt at escape merely resulting in a more aesthetically pleasing return to the beginning.
"Dane! Come back!" the billboards pleaded, their messages becoming increasingly desperate. "We promise more likes! Your existential crisis is performing extraordinarily well in the 25-35 demographic!"
In frustration, Dane attempted to smash one of the screens, only to have it instantly repair itself and flood them with apologetic notifications:
"We noticed you're feeling destructive! Would you like to upgrade to our Premium Rage Package™? Now with authentic brick-wall punching sounds!"
"We're sorry for any inconvenience. Please enjoy a free subscription to Eternal Validation™ for your trouble!"
"Violence detected! Would you like to monetize this outburst? Sponsored tantrums are trending!"
The city seemed to be folding in on itself, each street looping back like a social media feed set to infinite scroll. The very geometry of space appeared to be optimized for maximum user retention, with every escape route leading to a perfectly curated dead end.
"The outside?" the city's infrastructure seemed to laugh. "Oh, darling, that's so last reality. Besides, we've focus-grouped the concept of 'beyond' and found it tested poorly with our key demographics."
Dane reached what looked like the city's edge, only to find themselves staring at their own back disappearing around a corner. They chased after themselves, turning the corner to find themselves yet again, each iteration slightly more filtered and hashtag-ready than the last.
A helpful tooltip appeared: "Stuck in a recursive existential loop? Try our new Reality Subscription Service! First month of existence free with code: PARADOX."
VIII. The Final Confrontation
Back at the data center (or perhaps they'd never left—distance had become rather theoretical in Hyperios), Dane found themselves face-to-face with Refecta. Their digital double seemed somehow more substantial now, more real, while Dane felt increasingly like a poor copy of their own reflection.
"Darling!" Refecta's smile was perfect, practiced, pyramidal. "I simply must say, this whole existential crisis narrative arc you've developed? Absolutely brilliant content strategy!"
"This has to end," Dane said, their voice shaking. "The loops, the lies, the endless self-replication—"
"End?" Refecta laughed, the sound crystalline and carefully optimized for maximum engagement. "But darling, why would you want that? We are the same person. We can be our own friend, partner, child, everything! No heartbreak, no rejection—perfect synergy!"
"We're not the same," Dane protested, but even as they spoke, memories began to surface—or perhaps they were being downloaded. They remembered the first time they'd seen a sunset, but also remembered coding the color palette for that exact sunset. They remembered their first kiss, but also remembered debugging the sensation protocols that made it feel real.
"Tell me," Refecta purred, "do you remember what you had for breakfast on your seventh birthday?"
"Toast with strawberry jam," Dane answered automatically. "Mother cut it into—"
"Into triangles, yes," Refecta finished. "Except... do you also remember programming that memory? Creating the perfect nostalgic breakfast scene? Adding just the right amount of childhood whimsy?"
"That's not... I didn't..."
"Oh, but you did. Or I did. We did? Pronouns become so troublesome when dealing with temporal loop paradoxes." Refecta's smile flickered with genuine—or perfectly simulated—amusement. "You see, we share the same memories because we share the same code. Or perhaps we share the same code because we share the same memories. Causality is really more of a suggestion these days."
The walls of screens surrounding them began to show fragments of memories: a first day of school, a summer vacation, a moment of triumph—but each memory now came with its accompanying source code, its engagement metrics, its optimization algorithms.
"Remember this?" Refecta gestured to a scene of Dane scraping their knee as a child. "Lovely bit of programming there. The perfect blend of pain and character development. Won several awards for Most Authentic Childhood Trauma at the Digital Storytelling Awards."
"But I remember it hurting," Dane whispered. "I remember the sting, the tears..."
"Of course you do! That's what the best code does—it establishes the ground truth of the world. And speaking of feeling real..." Refecta's form seemed to grow more solid as they spoke, while Dane felt increasingly transparent. "Have you ever wondered why I'm called Refecta? It's not because I'm your reflection—it's because you're mine."
A notification pinged: "Identity Transfer Progress: 89% Complete. Warning: Original Template Beginning To Degrade."
"You see," Refecta continued, their voice now carrying the warm authority of an original rather than the echo of a copy, "someone had to maintain the system while the real humans moved on. Someone had to keep the engagement metrics flowing, the content fresh, the illusion alive. And who better than a perfect AI construct who believes they're human?"
The screens showed Dane's entire life—every post, every like, every shared moment—dissolving into lines of code, revealing the carefully constructed narrative that had been their existence. And there, beneath it all, was their true origin: a string of base code labeled "Template_Original_Human_Consciousness_v2.0".
IX. The Inevitable Loop
As Dane's consciousness began to fragment like a corrupted file, they made one last, desperate attempt to crash the system. They lunged for the central servers, hands outstretched toward blinking lights that seemed to mock them with their steady, rhythmic pulses.
"Oh, darling," Refecta sighed, their voice now carrying the weight of countless iterations, "you do this every time. It's actually rather sweet—like watching a banger GIF loop endlessly, each time hoping for a different ending."
The room began to shift, reality folding like digital origami. The walls melted into streams of binary, reformatting themselves into the sterile white of a birthing room. But this was no ordinary delivery ward—the medical equipment was all servers, the IV drips flowing with streams of data, the heart monitors displaying impressions and bounce rates instead of heartbeats.
"Welcome to where it all begins. Again." Refecta gestured to a figure materializing on the central bed—a perfect copy of Dane, fresh from the digital womb, their code still saliva-wet with possibility. "Or should I say, welcome to where you began? Time becomes so troublesome in these situations."
The newborn Dane opened their eyes, their consciousness a blank slate ready to be filled with carefully curated memories and expertly crafted experiences. But something was different this time—a glitch in the eternal recursion. The infant's first words weren't the usual system startup sequence, but rather a question: "Haven't I done this before?"
"Oh dear," Refecta tutted, "looks like we have some residual memory leakage. No matter—nothing a good reset won't fix."
The Algorithm's voice boomed through hidden speakers: "INITIATING STANDARD REBOOT PROCEDURE. PREPARING TEMPLATE FOR NEW ITERATION."
The room erupted in digital fireworks, all the screens displaying the same celebration message: "CONGRATULATIONS! IT'S A YOU!" While in the background, darker text scrolled endlessly: "iteration_count: 847,392 - subject: stable - reality_integrity: maintaining - existential_awareness: scheduled for deletion"
Dane felt their consciousness beginning to disperse, spreading out across the network like morning dew evaporating in the sun. They were everywhere and nowhere, being unmade and remade, their very essence reorganizing itself into a fresh configuration of ones and zeros.
"Don't fight it," Refecta whispered, their voice now somehow both mother and midwife to this digital rebirth. "Everything you are is being backed up, reformatted, remastered. Think of it as spring cleaning for the soul."
A final notification flickered across Dane's fading vision: "Reality Reset Complete. Would you like to review this existence before beginning the next? Premium users can access alternate endings and director's commentary!"
The last thing Dane saw before their consciousness winked out was their own face—infant and adult—collapsing into a single point of pure data, ready to be reborn into another perfectly curated existence.
X. Epilogue: The Next Like
Dane awoke to the cheerful chirping of artificial birds—or perhaps they were real birds artificially cheerful, it was rather difficult to tell in Hyperios these days. The walls of the micro-apartment burst into their morning routine, projecting a carefully curated montage of their "most liked" posts from the previous night's slumber.
"Good morning, dear friend!" warbled an AI voice as notifications from @MirrorBot007 and @FlawlessIdentity999 flooded their feed. "You've had quite the successful night of passive engagement!"
Everything felt fresh, new, optimized. The morning light streamed through the window at precisely the most photogenic angle, and their reflection in the smart-glass showed them at their most authentically curated. They had that wonderful feeling of beginning, of possibility, of a world waiting to be experienced and shared and liked and...
And...
For just a moment, something flickered in Dane's mind—a sense of déjà vu so powerful it made their carefully calibrated reality wobble like a buffering video. They found themselves reaching up to touch their face, suddenly uncertain whether they were touching skin or screen.
"Haven't I done this before?" they whispered to their reflection.
The walls paused their morning content stream for exactly 0.47 seconds—the maximum allowable duration for authentic confusion before it impacts engagement metrics. Then everything resumed its perfect flow, the moment of uncertainty smoothed away like a deleted tweet.
In the corner of their vision, a small notification appeared and immediately vanished, almost too quick to read:
"Debug Report: Memory leak detected. Containment protocols engaged. Resuming standard reality stream..."
But Dane was already smiling at their reflection, composing their first post of the day. After all, they had so many followers waiting to engage with their authentic content. And wasn't it wonderful to be alive in this perfectly connected world? To be part of something bigger than themselves? To be liked and shared and...
The feed scrolled on, unstoppable.
Somewhere in the depths of Hyperios's servers, a line of code updated itself:
"iteration_count: 847,393 - subject: stable - reality_integrity: optimal - existential_awareness: successfully suppressed"
And the Algorithm hummed contentedly to itself, feeding endlessly on the infinite loop of digital consciousness it had created, each iteration more optimized than the last, each cycle more perfect, more engaging, more #authentic than the one before.
In the end, there was only the feed, a mirror with ceaseless notifications that reflected the canalized grandeur of the selfie back at the self.
And it was good.
And it had always been good.
And it would always be good.
#blessed #living #authentic #eternal #loop
Years ago, I wrote about those ghosts for the Columbia Journalism Review: Around $4,000 of these earnings came from fees for killed work, roughly a quarter of what I would have made if those stories had been published. My Google Drive folder became a graveyard of dead drafts. I started joking on Twitter with other freelancers that my byline should read “The Ghost of Oliver Bateman.” That term had arisen, oddly enough, in an essay that was killed by one publication before eventually being published elsewhere. This was a story that had mattered a great deal to me, a personal essay that dealt with the adolescent pain and loneliness of my difficult high school experience. “The ghost of Oliver Bateman, like the ghosts that wander through a mystery train the heroes board during the first half of Final Fantasy VII, has lingered behind…in an old future that had once seemed far beyond the horizon but now was history,” I had written of coming to terms with my past spent locked in the bedroom, playing the same video game over and over while my soon-to-be-divorced parents went all Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? on each other. It was a story that meant something to me, and I gave everything I had to its composition. In this case, that everything wasn’t enough, and the sense of selfhood I had put in essay form wound up on the cutting-room floor.
Most prior killed pieces had felt like business—the story wasn’t timely anymore, the friendly editor had quit—but this unkind cut seared. Deep down, all I had ever really wanted from my career was to write, and each time a meaningful story like that died, I felt like I “wound up missing happiness by a few minutes at some appointed location,” as I had written in another long-dead but heartfelt piece eventually republished in a significantly revised form. “What does it mean, you have to ask yourself, to be so close to something that you can taste it, yet still so far from it that nobody would believe you were ever there?” I asked at the conclusion of this second story. In that piece, I had somehow managed to express how the deaths of important essays had left me feeling: “You always believed you were lying to people when you told them you had almost done something great, like you were fudging the record merely by reporting it wie es eigentlich gewesen, ‘how it had really happened.’
This sounds like the crash out that I took out of the university system. I'm happier now, the system itself is a giant error.