Dear Internet,
We’ve known each other for a long time now.
Long enough for you to know what I’ll click before I do.
Long enough for me to forget what silence feels like.
I don’t really come to you for noise — though you have plenty of that.
I come to you when I want to feel something familiar.
To find old corners that haven’t been redesigned since 2008,
to read forgotten blogs that still sound like someone whispering to no one in particular.
Those places comfort me.
They remind me of the time when you were slower, smaller,
when people wrote because they wanted to, not because they had to post.
I still love you, you know.
You’ve given me the spaces to think, to write, to leave small traces of who I am.
My own blog is one of them — a quiet room in your endless city.
Somewhere between all the noise and the neon,
I’m trying to leave an identity here, a voice that doesn’t scroll away too fast.
But, Internet, you’ve changed.
You used to be a friend — now you feel like a crowd.
Everything moves too quickly,
and most of it feels the same.
Sometimes I miss when you were just a few tabs,
and not a thousand notifications pretending to be connection.
Still, I stay.
Because even inside your chaos,
I find warmth — in a random post that hits nostalgia just right,
in a stranger building something out of nothing,
in a video about camping or crafting or quiet living.
Tiny reminders that people still create for the sake of creating.
So, no, I don’t hate you.
I just miss the version of you where it felt safe to be small.
And maybe, in writing this, I’m not really talking to you —
I’m talking to the part of me that grew up here,
still hoping that somewhere in your infinite scroll,
there’s a little space left for silence.
With love,
— Dharma
