I open Instagram, the world around me pauses, and only the purple rings around small icons of people I barely reconise remain. Clicking the icon means acknowledging being an audience to their performance. The rectangle opens, it’s a photo of their hand on their lap in a rickshaw with the surroundings blurred as things do when one is moving. I feel the need to zoom in, I am not in a rickshaw, I am not in Bangkok, I am not wearing a magenta striped pant and I don’t have matching nails, I move my eyes around the phone screen, the walls of my apartment seem to be vibrating, I hear static. I tap further. A classmate from a decade ago, sitting in their veranda playing a game of carrom with two men, niether of whom I recognize, and a grey water cooler in the background slightly hidden from the otherwise aesthetic shot. Flashback to my parents home, my garden, my cooler, and my friends in the city I visit only for vacation now. Chest, a little tight now. I tap next. A person I only met once at an event, followed because they asked, has reposted stories of their country mates being harrased. It’s not in a language I know. Tap again. Another classmate showing a view of the hike they finished, and an accompanying story with the screenshot of their fitness tracker, 540 calories burned. Zoom in, 10:34am, LTE, alarms on, green circle showing on a call. I click out of the stories. Purple circles are gone, icons remain. I scroll down, the algorithm is a time capsule of the personality I had when I deactivated. Beaches, meditation, home decor, poetry, digestible news for the urban population. I go to my profile, the static is louder. Two posts, both unrecognizable.
An audience member might feel catharsis, empathy, love, hatred, envy, obsession, passion, or anger at the performer, but can they ever feel oneness? I never feel more disconnected from the world as when I’m viewing a story of someone’s world.
I want to be seen only by the eyes I see. I want to know only what I am chosen for. I want to hear only what’s for my ears alone. I will not be a viewer, a fan, a voyuer, unless I rip my heart out in exchange for an extra lung.