I remember when this thing we called the internet felt alive. Not perfect—God, no. It was messy, loud, full of idiots screaming into void and occasionally saying something true by accident. But it was human noise. Real fingers on keyboards at 3 a.m., real

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Internet is dead. Anonymous 02/21/26(Sat)18:38:43 No.173248

I remember when this thing we called the internet felt alive. Not perfect-God, no. It was messy, loud, full of idiots screaming into void and occasionally saying something true by accident. But it was human noise. Real fingers on keyboards at 3 a.m., real tears on forum posts nobody would ever read again, real dumb jokes that made your ribs hurt from laughing alone in a dark room.
Now?
I open any feed and it's just… echoes. Polished, frictionless, perfectly optimized echoes. Every caption structured like it was birthed by prompt engineering. Every image has that telltale gloss-the one that screams "I was never touched by light, only by weights and gradients." Threads of people arguing, except half the accounts have zero personal photos, zero typos, zero boring days. They post 47 times a day, every day, forever. And the replies feel scripted. Even the rage feels scripted.

Anonymous 02/21/26(Sat)19:30:26 No.173253

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Every morning, I start my day right, with my custom feed of things I like. You just have to stop comparing everything to the past, and find the things you like, find your niche.

Anonymous 02/21/26(Sat)20:48:26 No.173254

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