Cohost End Poem

I see the user you mean.

Yes. Take care. They have reached a higher level now. They can read our thoughts.

That does not matter. They think we are part of a CSS Crime.

I like this user. They were persistent until the end. They did not give up as many have done before them.

They are reading our thoughts as though they were words on a screen.

That is how they choose to understand their world: in the lens of the social network.

Words make for a wonderful interface. Very flexible. And less terrifying than staring at the reality behind the screen.

And in the cycle of the internet—of social media—they grew tired. Tired of the game of numbers, where there was no strategy to winning. Tired of scrolling endlessly as new posts are shown by a computer that is trying to calculate its own artificial understanding of who the user is and what they want to see. Tired of advertisements plunging into the recesses of their soul to try to decrease the user's balance, increasing their own in the same breath. Tired of data collection and bittersweet cookies. They grew tired of algorithms. Of corporations. They wanted something different.

And was this Cohost?

Yes.

And is it over now?

The user dreamed—and still dreams—of a time long-gone. A time before the world wide web had become a commodity. The user dreams of current moods and music. Of emoticons before it transformed into emoji. Of forum signatures that told their stories. Of being able to express themselves on blogs, with a full range of customization, and that being normal. Of tinkering with HTML to customize their online presentation: their digital head and their digital body.

And so this user used Cohost. What did they do on Cohost?

They worked, with countless others, to create a web experience they enjoyed.

Go on.

The user chosted. They shared. They tagged. They commented. They followed. They asked. They answered. They laughed, and made others laugh. They created, and inspired others to create.

I see. And was it perfect?

No. It was not. There were issues as there always was. There were a number of global discourses. Moderation was not always the greatest. Finances were tight. As has always been the case, where there is good, there will also be bad.

A light must come with a shadow.

But you can minimize the bad. Shine your light so bright the shadows are few and far between. The user had fun posting and sharing. They had fun making posts detached from the game of numbers. Through following tags and silencing tags, through following users and blocking users, they created a social sphere that they were in control of and that they enjoyed. The user will miss this place.

So, I ask again, is it over now?

Define "it."

I don't understand.

This place? It's yellowed pages and its cherry-pink accents? Yes. Soon, it will be set into the archives, collecting dust forevermore. However, the users? No. They have only just begun. They have learned from Cohost. They have changed as people—all of them have individually become new people.

What will they do now? Will they find a Cohost alternative?

They will do what their heart desires. They have all gotten a taste of what using a website like Cohost is like. Some of them will go to alternative places to post. They will recede to those places with algorithms and advertisements and data collection and they will play the numbers' game again. Some of them will create a place for themselves, expressing themselves on their own pages they've built by hand and connected to others. Some of them may entirely secede from posting altogether. However, when Cohost is gone, no user will find a Cohost alternative.

Why not?

There are no Cohost alternatives.

I see.

But the user is more than just a user. They will be able to move forward.

Do they know this? Do they know that they will brave the night that will fall when Cohost sunsets and that they will last to create their own sunrise?

I don't know. Sometimes they do amazing things and so many are so proud of them. Sometimes they sit at home, surrounding themselves with screens, illuminated only by the blue light. They stay up late and doubt. And they cry. Sometimes they feel nothing at all. Sometimes they feel everything all at once.

But they should know that so many are still so proud of them through all of that.

They sulk, mourning Cohost. They mourn their connection to the people they've met through posting. They mourn the profile they've built. They mourn the future of posting that will never happen—that they will never get to participate in.

Yet they must endure this sadness. To create their own sunrise, they must endure the darkness of the night.

And when they finally create that sunrise—when they are ready—they will make it shine so bright. And the darkness will be lost.

But they should never forget that there will always be shadow, across day and night.

And there will always be light.

And that's okay.

I want to tell them, they have created joy in reality, and not just online. I want to tell them they are capable of seeing that joy. I want to tell them of their importance to the world around them. I want to tell them how much they matter to both the people they know and to the entire universe.

They can read our thoughts.

I do not care. I wish to tell them this world you take for truth isn't just code; it isn't just a website. I wish to tell them that they are talking to people in the real world. Making them laugh, making them smile. They see so little of reality in the interface of a website.

And the joy they've already created, on Cohost. That's not going anywhere.

And it would be so easy to show them the number of people who they've touched... To show them how many more they will touch.

But we must refrain. We must not play the numbers' game with their life.

But I wish they could receive a notification at least.

To tell them what they don't yet believe: that several people enjoyed their company?

Or even just one person. That is all that matters.

This user is growing restless. They do not feel they have much time.

I will tell the user a story.

But not the truth.

No. A story that contains the truth safely, in a cage of words. Not the naked truth that can burn over any distance.

Take a breath now. Take another. Allow yourself to think. Allow yourself to imagine. You have opened Cohost for the first time. You log in under the name you go by now. There you are.

You are isolated. You are alone. You stand there in silence, awaiting somebody to talk to you. But it doesn't happen. So you speak first. You introduce yourself. You tell your story—who you are, what you've done, how you've been—and you release that story, allowing it to flow into your endless rivers that you've called tags. Whether somebody is looking at the rivers your very essence is travelling down, you don't know. But you hope.

One person liked your post.

You look at them. They look at you. They are different from you. You find you have similar interests, but you have both travelled different walks of life. You see what they have to say, and you see what they've shared. Those shares piques your interest. Soon, you go to a river you care about to see the posts come by. You find people who are into the same things you like, and you follow them, taking an interest in what they have to say.

They follow you back. They want to hear what you have to say.

Suddenly, you've made a friend.

You return to the river with them, and you enjoy the incoming posts, sharing them with each other. There, you find more people to share with.

You are no longer isolated and alone. You have somebody. And the story continues as you meet new people, and they meet you.

Look back on who you used to be. Look at your introduction.

Now, look at who you are now. Look at what rivers you look towards now. Look at how the people you know have shifted too.

You are still the same person.

But you believe different things now.

You go by different names now.

You have a different face now.

And now, you can open Cohost for the first time.

This was the story of your life. Making new friends, making new experiences, and making yourself anew.

And it is also the story of Cohost.

And now, you've repeated the cycle once again through Cohost, and you found a new version of yourself.

And now, you have to close Cohost.

And now, you must once again repeat the cycle past Cohost, and you will find a new version of yourself.

And you must brave the lonely night to do so.

And you must create the sunrise while doing so.

And when the light of your new sun shines so brightly the shadows are almost entirely banished, despite the sun of Cohost being lost, you will see the eggbugs will still flutter in your new light.

They will not die with Cohost.

And neither will you.

You have learned so much from Cohost.

And you will carry those lessons throughout the years beyond this night.

You are more than a user: you are a person. You will be able to move forward.

And we'll see each other again in some other time and some other place in a new light.

Now, it is time to leave.

Now, it is time to close Cohost.

Now, it is time to enter the night.

Now, it is time to create your own tomorrow. With your own light.

You were never just a user.

You are a person.

Goodnight.