#digital existentialism

It’s strange—even on this blog, where I can be a n o n y m o u s, I still find myself thinking about how I come across. I want to be honest, but there’s this subtle pull to craft a version of myself that feels more polished. I catch myself editing my words, curating the vibe of my blog, and choosing the aesthetic that feels just right. It’s not about how I look—more about how I m o v e through the world, the parts of me I show, and the parts I keep to myself.

In a world that’s increasingly filtered through screens, I sometimes wonder how much of myself is actually me. Digital spaces offer this strange power: I can choose how I present myself, how I engage, and what pieces of me I want to share. F r e e d o m comes with it, but so does a quiet uncertainty. Even with all this control, I’m still navigating the same internal landscape. The only difference is that now, it’s through a screen.

These s p a c e s draw me in because they let me express things I might not say out loud—thoughts that feel too complicated or vulnerable in the real world. It’s comforting to know that if someone resonates with me, it’s not because I’ve bared every detail of myself, but because I’ve been honest in the way I’ve chosen to show up.

But even with that, I still hold back. I don’t take photos or videos at concerts or music festivals, even though those are some of my favorite places. To me, those experiences are too pure to be filtered through the lens of social media, turned into something for clout. So, while I show up in digital spaces, there’s still a piece of me that stays off-screen—not because I’m hiding it, but because I want to keep some things just for me.

Maybe that’s the real tension I’m trying to navigate: in a world that asks for curated selves, how do we balance showing up authentically while keeping what’s ours—what’s p r i v a t e—and what’s worth keeping to ourselves?

In the end, it’s about connection, right? I crave that moment when someone truly resonates with me. Maybe that’s what it means to be real: showing up with your imperfections and contradictions, even if they’re left unspoken. It’s not about having everything figured out, but about being willing to explore who you are—digitally or not.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m a glitch in my own system—a d i s j o i n t e d algorithm trying to process too many inputs at once. Every project, every idea, every new thing I want to learn screams for attention, and I’m pulled in so many directions that I’m not sure which way is forward. It’s like living in a state of perpetual c h a o s, where the noise of everything I “want” to do drowns out the signal of what I should be doing.

I spread myself thin, scattering tiny pieces of progress everywhere. A line of code here, a paragraph there, a half-formed thought scribbled in the margins of my mind. It’s messy. It’s inefficient. And yet, it’s the only way I know how to m o v e .

My computer is a patchwork of operating systems—Linux for gaming and coding, Windows for the rest, each groaning under the weight of too many programs running simultaneously.  My brain feels the same way: compartmentalized and f r a g m e n t e d, with different browsers open for different projects, each one bloated with a million tabs. Every time I try to focus, another alert pings, another idea flashes, and I’m yanked into a new rabbit hole before I can even bookmark where I left off.

It’s paralyzing, but it’s also exhilarating. I thrive on hyper-focus. When I let myself fall into the flow of one thing—whether it’s coding, writing, or chasing a random thought—I can move mountains in an afternoon. It’s not linear nor orderly, but it’s mine.

I’ve learned to stop fighting the chaos. Instead, I’ve started to w o r k with it. I sacrifice long-term goals for short-term o b s e s s i o n s , because the little wins keep me going. I surround myself with projects that could lead somewhere bigger, even if I’m only dipping into them for a moment. It’s not about neat, organized progress. It’s about finding the rhythm in the mess.

Maybe that’s the beauty of it? Even when it feels like I’m falling apart, I’m still creating. I’m still moving. The road is disjointed, g l i t c h y , and full of detours, but it’s still leading me somewhere.