I rise early. Before dawn. I immediately open Facebook. It’s important to have a routine. I know that it’s futile but I try and have hope. Hope keeps me going, so every day I open Facebook at 5 AM.
I’m alone. There is no other person on Facebook. Every day, I open Facebook. I look for any sign of human life. There is none.
I leave a message in the comments section of an advertisement for a device that will remove wax from your ear canal with greater efficiency than any other such device. I see my comment from the previous day. It has had no likes. I don’t believe today’s message will get any likes either but, like I say, it’s important to have a routine.
I scroll through the timeline. I see that there is an advertisement for a new tray that hangs over the arm of my sofa. It is steady enough that I could place a cup of coffee on it without fear of spillage. I don’t drink coffee. I drink tea. I suspect it would work just as well for tea. I like the ad. I am the only person to do so. I will only ever be the only person to do so.
I continue with my day.
At mid-morning, I take a break. I open Facebook. A Facebook memory. It’s hard to look at. It’s from twelve years ago. I’d posted a comment about the Olympics. It has 17 likes. I stare at that number. It seems impossible. There was a time when there were 17 people on Facebook. 17 people I knew. More than 17? Probably, but 17 who liked this comment. 17 people. What happened to them?
What happened to the people on Facebook? It’s a question I ask myself every day. There used to be people here. Many people. I’d poke them. I’d message them. I’d share with them photos of the time I repainted the kitchen. They became fewer. It was imperceptible at first, just a feeling. I realized I hadn’t been poked by an old colleague for a long time. I checked. It’s had been a month. I poked her. Nothing. She’d gone.
More people followed. My timeline became a sea of ads for VPNs and hair-loss treatments. The appearance of a family photo of a friend became a rare treat. I’d like it. I’d leave comments about how their children looked like them. It didn’t help. The photos and posts became fewer and fewer until finally they disappeared and I was alone.
I am alone on Facebook.
Later, I take a photo of myself. I post it with a comment “Just living my life.” The algorithm promotes photos. If there is another human being out there, somewhere, then there is more of a chance the algorithm will share my photo with that person.
I imagine that I open Facebook later. Tomorrow. I imagine I have an alert. “Someone has liked your photo.” How would that feel? To find contact once more with another human on Facebook. To not just be confronted with memories of posts I’d made and advertisements for subscription shaving services and new compilations of songs by bands I don’t like. To make real contact again. To find human life once more on Facebook. I smile, but I feel tears in my eyes. There’s no one there.
Should I leave Facebook? Delete the app and just accept that Facebook is lost to the bots and automated posts. I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about getting up each morning and not opening Facebook. Would that feel empty and lonely? Would that feel liberating and freeing? What if I deleted it and then another human started to use Facebook again? What if they posted photos of their holidays? What if they posted a funny joke? What if they felt sad? What if they recommended a book I might like? What if it were possible to have real contact with a person again on Facebook, but I’d deleted the app?
Will it happen? Will there ever be real humans on Facebook again? I don’t know. I try to keep hope alive but it’s hard. Maybe I will delete Facebook. Tomorrow, though. Not today.
I open Facebook. There’s an ad for cargo shorts. I like it.