Bringing to action my last post, I reached out on Facebook to friends for which I have yet to connect. Add to it, I began another round of friend invitations, writing a short note to each person as well. Instead of a platform of one-click reactions and sharing content at a nameless audience, I want to bring authenticity; I want to bring love. We are humans with intricate, interwoven stories. And individuality is often squashed by overarching narratives among authoritarian figures, whether political or business. We are more than pawns in a game for the world's richest. At the end of the day, even their stuff, is just stuff. It has all the bearing as the dirt at my feet. And to be honest, from what I understand, they live miserable lives; I would not want to emulate them in this world or the next.

And thus, I wrote my notes. I did not take up my voice on this site—how would that go? "From the dawn of time, man has coveted one thing...a good plate of nachos." I can't even pretend to write a high-brow private message! This example does shows I hoped I was approachable, that I rejected pretentiousness. In the past, people have told me I was intimidating. Whether if it was my INTJ resting face, the way I held myself or my Dapper Dan Pomade good looks—I don't know!

I hope I conveyed a bridge between one soul to another; I hope I laid out something in which I didn't take myself seriously. Look, everyone else seems to do that; they're not confident with who they are and post Glamour Shots on Instagram. Or, in their foolish arrogance, they raise the banner of an underwhelming, middle management kingdom on LinkedIn.

I know I would have turned out just the same. Vanity is older than humanity. I had to earn the lesson of asking, "Who am I?" Ahh, in my failure and setbacks, I am steeped in Ecclesiastes!

And I suspect my notes were jarring for some. It did not fit the expectations. I think we've got that ol' frog in the boiling pot again: they have been convinced their uniqueness does not matter (and subconsciously, they may think they do not matter). They are relegated to a tear-off number, staring in silence at Facebook's feed, waiting in line for someone to care. When someone on that platform does spend minutes—just for them—I imagine they might find that unsettling—who does that? Implying that they have intrinsic worth? That they matter?

I met discouragement. When I thought they would play pong and encourage in turn, they lashed out, dismissing my core way of living with an appeal to those very same political and business authorities that broke their heart. For a split second, I had a flash of anger, but that microexpression quickly returned to neutral. My worn tools, those hammers I once cherished, were put away, back into their rusty toolbox. I know the lives they have lived, the disappointments they had; they were told they were not good enough; they were told they were not pretty enough.

They were lied to.

In time, they may stand apart from the masses. Or, they will grow older like an emotional miser sitting alone on his recliner for one...in an empty living room...the TV flickering for no one. As the Beatles share, "He's a real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans for nobody."

Hello, speak up, is there somebody there?
These hang-ups are getting me down
In a world frozen over with over-exposure
Let's talk it over, let's go out and paint the town

-Soul Asylum, Somebody to Shove