Dear Facebook.

Our relationship is ruining us. It has come to my attention that our supposedly conjugal arrangement has been nothing but a fraud, and it’s something I’d like to call you out on.

When you first approached me… well, how could I say no? You were such a charmer — talking about things that no one else had ever done before, changes that would revolutionize the way communication would be bridged, progress, revitalization, and all that jazz. Really, in a space already full to the brim with your kind, you just waltzed right in like it was the easiest thing in the world to do.

How could I say no?

By that time I was tired; and feeling old, old, terribly old. After all, I’ve been around since forever, and it’s an arduous process, keeping up with the times. I’d had so many cosmetic changes by then that I thought making my way into the 21st century would have been relatively easier than before. In a way, I guess it was. Easier, I mean. But that doesn’t mean it turned out for the better.

You have to understand, at the start of the Internet boom, I was understandably the belle of the ball. Wooed by so many, it was difficult to ground myself on any single one. So I refused to be limited. Tried everything that the medium had to offer, and for a while, it was good. Wonderful, even. After the painful blow that the advent of cellular phones had inflicted on my psyche, I was revived like never before. The convenience of it, the speed, the quickness and efficiency… truly, the world had no more boundaries, and I was at the frontier of it all. I was especially enamored with Email and Blog, and I knew they were just as enamored with me. Ours was a fruitful relationship, characterized by elaborate veins of thought, digressions, exercises of the mind. And although I was often nostalgic for Pen and Paper, I wasn’t naïve. I didn’t fancy a return to the days when people wrote in longhand to each other, on scented paper and the like. Besides, at the very least, there was still a fleshing out of thought. How else would I have survived this long if I didn’t adapt to the times?

But even this was short-lived. Humanity moves at a pace too rapid for me to comprehend; always looking out for something easier, faster, less time-consuming… even when they already have it all. Thus, the slow expiration of Email; the lethargic passing of Blog. Thus, the birth of your kind.

And out of the homogenous mass of social networking sites, you arose, claiming to be different. Claiming that I would again be reborn on a scale so massive that literally millions of people the world over would be writing — and I mean really writing — once more.

But there’s the rub.

What we have is a fraud, for the simple reason that you’ve been unfaithful and untrue. How can I compete with the rest of your mistresses? In a time when wall posts, status updates, chat, and even photo uploads seem to mean more, say more, and attract more than I ever could, I’ve been left to rot in a corner, slowly dying of old age. All my transformations — from the time I used to be written on stone all the way up to my being written in code — in a way carried with them a kind of death. But not like this. Staying with you, agreeing to being used as a kind of conditional add-on, prostituting myself for the purpose of sending terse, private messages… will be the end of me.

A man who cannot even write me adequately, with spontaneity and a powerful overflow of emotion (to paraphrase Wordsworth), will make for an awkward figure. He will be unable to cope with the complexities of life, and will find himself at a loss on any occasion. This I know, because I was there when civilization was established through communication wrought from my self, and I was there when Rome fell and the many versions of me burned along with it.

I am representative of the human mind. Without me, the great teachers of antiquity, Socrates and Buddha, would have never had their teachings recorded. Without me, how could Shakespeare have thrived? Without me, the great mainstays of humanity; education, speech, and most of all, love, would never have been able to flourish. Certainly, I present a good criterion for the judgment of individual character.

Our relationship, however, has trivialized everything I represent. And while I realize that you can’t be blamed for the way you’ve been used in the fragmented reality of 21st-century life, you remain the phenomenon that started it all.

It’s not so much my longevity that bothers me. You may die out, but I will live on; in a different body, perhaps, but I’ll still be around. And that’s a fact.

What scares me the most though, is the thought that I may never be used in the same way ever again. If the dictates of our relationship mean the proliferation of speed, convenience, and utility, all at the cost of what I represent, then we should end this.

I have an obligation to the next generation of those who would use me. And if you have any respect for the weight of humanity that I carry, set me free.

Love,

Letter