Sorry if this turns out a bit too long — it’s more like a journal entry than a post that I just needed to get out. I just wanted to pour out some thoughts after being on Chatzozo for more than a year and a half. I’ve realized how strange it is to grow attached to a place built on fleeting words and fading names. People come and go and it's confusing how time passes here — the faces change, the names blur, but the feelings somehow stay the same-lingering... So this is me, trying to make sense of it all, untangling maybe just a bit of it- the quiet ache of staying connected, even when I know better.
I used to think lowkey friendships were empty — too quiet, too shallow, too distant to mean anything. I craved depth, warmth, connection that burned bright enough to make me feel alive. But somewhere along the way, I started to understand the comfort of distance — how calm feels safer than closeness, how peace can exist in bonds that don’t demand too much. I used to chase intensity; now I settle for stability, even when it feels like silence.
Attachment used to feel like home, but now it feels like risk. I start conversations, then end them too soon. I linger between wanting and fearing, between reaching out and pulling back. I tell stories that skim the surface — not because I lack emotion, but because I feel too much of it. It’s easier to protect myself behind half-truths than to hand someone the parts of me that have already been mishandled.
Responsibilities keep me grounded, but my heart still drifts online, chasing the illusion of connection through familiar faces and voices I’ll never meet. It’s not just addiction — it’s longing disguised as distraction. The screen gives me comfort, a temporary sense of belonging that disappears as soon as the conversation ends. I know it’s not real, but I cling to it anyway. It’s hard to let go of something that makes you feel less alone, even if it’s built on pixels and pretending.
People think I’m cold, detached, maybe even unbothered. They don’t see how much effort it takes to appear that way. They don’t see the exhaustion behind composure, the stress hidden beneath calm, the fear disguised as indifference. It’s not distance I crave — it’s safety. I’ve learned that caring too much can be dangerous, and sometimes survival looks a lot like apathy.
And even though I know better, I still believe my heart over my mind. I still trust my emotions over cold, hard reality. I know it’ll cost me — maybe more than I can afford — but I can’t stop being a fool for feeling. Because no matter how many times it breaks me, I still want to believe that love, in any form, is worth the risk.
So I exist in the space between — close enough to feel, distant enough to survive. Maybe one day I’ll stop mistaking safety for peace, but for now, this quiet middle ground is where I can finally breathe.
I don’t know — maybe it’s just me. But does anyone else ever feel that quiet guilt after keeping connections alive online, knowing deep down they’ll fade anyway? That strange ache of holding on to people who were never really yours to keep — yet you can’t bring yourself to let go?
And if you actually made it this far through my rambling, thank you — genuinely. It means more than you think
I used to think lowkey friendships were empty — too quiet, too shallow, too distant to mean anything. I craved depth, warmth, connection that burned bright enough to make me feel alive. But somewhere along the way, I started to understand the comfort of distance — how calm feels safer than closeness, how peace can exist in bonds that don’t demand too much. I used to chase intensity; now I settle for stability, even when it feels like silence.
Attachment used to feel like home, but now it feels like risk. I start conversations, then end them too soon. I linger between wanting and fearing, between reaching out and pulling back. I tell stories that skim the surface — not because I lack emotion, but because I feel too much of it. It’s easier to protect myself behind half-truths than to hand someone the parts of me that have already been mishandled.
Responsibilities keep me grounded, but my heart still drifts online, chasing the illusion of connection through familiar faces and voices I’ll never meet. It’s not just addiction — it’s longing disguised as distraction. The screen gives me comfort, a temporary sense of belonging that disappears as soon as the conversation ends. I know it’s not real, but I cling to it anyway. It’s hard to let go of something that makes you feel less alone, even if it’s built on pixels and pretending.
People think I’m cold, detached, maybe even unbothered. They don’t see how much effort it takes to appear that way. They don’t see the exhaustion behind composure, the stress hidden beneath calm, the fear disguised as indifference. It’s not distance I crave — it’s safety. I’ve learned that caring too much can be dangerous, and sometimes survival looks a lot like apathy.
And even though I know better, I still believe my heart over my mind. I still trust my emotions over cold, hard reality. I know it’ll cost me — maybe more than I can afford — but I can’t stop being a fool for feeling. Because no matter how many times it breaks me, I still want to believe that love, in any form, is worth the risk.
So I exist in the space between — close enough to feel, distant enough to survive. Maybe one day I’ll stop mistaking safety for peace, but for now, this quiet middle ground is where I can finally breathe.
I don’t know — maybe it’s just me. But does anyone else ever feel that quiet guilt after keeping connections alive online, knowing deep down they’ll fade anyway? That strange ache of holding on to people who were never really yours to keep — yet you can’t bring yourself to let go?
And if you actually made it this far through my rambling, thank you — genuinely. It means more than you think
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you definitely get what you want...
