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Anjana Rao Oct 2014
This is more than “block” or “hide posts.” No, this is permanent, this is calling it Quits, this is “we cannot be civil towards each other after all, we cannot bear to even potentially see each other on our newsfeeds.” Unfriend. We are not Friends. We are Over. Unfriend means “out of sight, out of mind.” Is it a feeling of relief at the finality of something that wasn’t working, or a sinking feeling that yet another relationship has gone down the tubes? Probably a sick combination of both – unfriend means you’ve both finally called a ***** a *****. Given Up. “…I am done trying to be friends with you,” written in the Final message. Is anything really Final? It’s hard to know. Human relationships are messy. We try to cut people off when they hurt us. Unfollow on tumblr, block phone numbers, delete them on skype, unfollow on twitter, but sometimes we run back to each other when we cool off, despite ourselves, we think, no, it can’t be The End, it can’t be Unfriend, we had things in common, we had something, surely it can’t be Over. Can't we try again? But “Every new beginning come from some other beginnings end” as a song goes, and some endings are necessary. What we don’t want to admit to ourselves is that not everyone is a Good or healthy person, no matter how many chances you give them. And maybe some relationships are doomed from the start, maybe it really was your fault and you are just “incredibly selfish,” maybe it was their fault, it was probably everyone’s fault somehow or another in the end. There is a drop down option on facebook called Unfriend and when it’s finally utilized, no one really feels good about it. All it means is that it’s time to move on, once again. Find someone new. There are other fish in the sea.
Written as a part of a writing prompt in the style of "There is a button on the remote control called FAV…" by Claudia Rankine
Emma Erbach Apr 2013
Every story is a sad story.
Everything is sad.
Too many tragedies, not enough time.
They pile up on top of one another,
Clamoring for attention.
Bombing tops earthquake tops ****** tops ****—
Burying us under the weight of too many
Bodies, their cold eyes pleading
See me, hear me, remember me but

Every story is a sad story
So no one stays sad very long.
When sadness is ever-present it becomes normal.
So now we don’t even blink, just
Scroll through our newsfeeds thinking:
The world is horrible and what’s for dinner
Simultaneously. When reality is too sad
Sadness becomes a simulation, acted out
On the stage of nightly news broadcasts and
Candelight vigils, as if:
If we all just felt sad enough for long enough
That would solve anything. As if:
If we could compartmentalize our sadness into
New national holidays and moments of silence
We could stop feeling everything so sharply.
But I am running out of room in my closet for charity t-shirts.

Every story is a sad story.
I am starting to become cynical.
One child dead from a drive-by shooting is no longer newsworthy.
Give me more bodies, more pictures
of distraught mothers crying,
More suffering.
We have fought too many wars in too many places to remember
that the bombs in Boston that shut down the entire city
Are an everyday occurrence everywhere else.
Except sometimes they are our bombs.
But rarely are they our children.

Every story is a sad story.
Everything is sad.
I am not sure which is worse: constant sadness
Or no sadness;
Constant tragedy or constant denial.
I am becoming too sad to write anymore.
The world is too horrible.
What’s for dinner?
Because it's different now and
not like it used to be if it ever was,

different.

I'm different
looking at things differently
some things interest me
others do not

and I feel like 'Lot'
carrying a bag of salt,
but that's the Methodist in me,
a touch of the weirdly wonderful
Wesley in me.

How can we be content to be
different
when it all looks the same?

(playing the advocate
is the Devils game)

It comes and it goes
shows up in newsfeeds
everyone leads a different life
but not like they used to.

Technologies,
ogres and catastrophes
devalue evolution
making Darwin
obsolete

and we complete the circle
by building boxes,
dwell in
cells
which is different
but the same as
a prison.
Reap the rewards
Of my sacrifice
Waning
With mastery over
The death I was
Draining
My lack of condolences
For the deceased  
For the filter feeds
Bottom feeds
Newsfeeds
A feast
Not the least bit concerned
With who lives
And who dies
It’s just malice and madness
That sells
And belies
We’re all smiles and gladness
But something inside
In its torturous torment
So tacitly writhes

— The End —