To The Online Dictatori (first letter)

I don’t know where I’m going with this.  You’re probably too calculating to understand or appreciate why I’m bothering, but I’m not you and shouldn’t jump to any conclusions.  Are you a subject?  A being?  An environment or situation?  I suppose I want to start a dialogue or correspondence, the very things you preclude, but I can’t send this letter.  I don’t know where it should go exactly.  Should I mail it to everyone (including myself) on the internet?  You’re not these millions (billions?) of people, or some sort of digital hive mind either.  You’re not me (the possibility still terrifies me).  You’re like a forced downsizing of everyday life, monstrously obfuscating our occupation by careerism.
Even if I did get this letter to you somehow, how could you respond without acknowledging something of what I’m telling you, without revealing what you are?  How did you begin?  What fosters the unspoken predation and angst of your manufactured desires, the inadequacies and envies, the branding and selling of selves?  Is it something wider than the internet, older than Neolithic divisions of labour, deeper than the advent of culture?
You’ll declare this and that about anything, civilities and society, right and wrong, otherness, ourselves and the idea of self, majorities and minorities, reality, what these terms mean in various contexts and scenarios.  With each statement an ownership of truth is asserted without consensus.  Truth is posited as a possession, publicly privatizing what might otherwise be shared or held in common.  You destroy particularity for everyone.  All things are made equivalent, up for grabs.  You fashion and then dismiss the definitive, the absolute absolutely, always from a place of relative material security and spiritual anonymity.   Your drama (amusement?) becomes an ongoing, public condition of precarity, humiliation, struggle as representation, politics as theatre, righteousness as bluff and bullying.
It’s as if I can hear you breathing excitedly, perpetually anticipating orgasm.  The subdued contortions of your face reflect the glow from your laptop monitor.  There are no witnesses.  What happens after this forever?  What becomes of your connoisseurship and currency?  Your ranking and arousal?
Within a constant battle for attention, the point is never the point.  How you make one has come to mean everything.  Content serves form until the ends of difference are interchangeably digested. Integrity passes through a sphincter of convenience.
Curating.  Associating.  Commenting. You drop names, allusions, inferences, insults, allegiances, deferments, praises, denunciations, public-private in-jokes, lists, lists of lists, lists of lists of lists.  Dignity ends before identity can function.  All of time lays down, finite, still, reified, waiting to be dredged.
We don’t need to rethink the economy here.  We need to exist without one.  Imagine what’ll happen if living displaces this competition to exist.