I just saw your mail dated a year ago. I’ve never checked my LinkedIn until today, to delete my account. A lot of things happened. I left Oslo 3 years ago, or almost. It was October 18. Unquestionably why your mail was returned.
I’m in Shanghai now and I’m about to disappear. I bought a new identity and I’m starting a new life. I’ve been spending some time to google my name and check every single link connected to my name. I’m trying to erase everything though I know it is not possible.
I guess that is the most depressing thought about the life we’ve lived online, that we’ve been there but we’ve never been really there. You can’t just die because even 10 years after your death, people will still be able to retell your story and put your photos and quote your favorite line and, you know, write your name and when people google you, you’ll be there. I’ve thought about it over and over and I’m scared, that I’ll never really be able to die. Like Lennon. Or even worse, Richey Edwards. People have never been sure about his wherabout and they will never leave him alone. I really think that internet is a massive blackhole we all are creating, by putting memory we can’t take away.
All those floating memories, the infinity we’ve invented, and the ghosts we’ve all become are here; spinning, creating gravity we can’t pull away from.
Gia, this is my last letter to you. I won’t put any question mark here. From your smile on the profile photo and your title and your new last name, I assume you’re fine and doing well and living your dream. I won’t assume that you’re happy but I’m glad for you and Chris, if it’s Chris. I’m glad for you and anything you don’t let go.
I don’t know if I owe you an apology because you surely don’t even need one anymore, but I’m sorry for never finding myself, for never letting myself be found.