It has come to my attention that suddenly deleting Instagram doesn’t turn you into the modern day Plato. Four months ago in an attempt of becoming more unique, maybe finding out more about myself, I deleted my Instagram account. Before doing so, I went for a last look. A story was told, a 5 year story of how I shared my life through those lenses. The person who I once was and turned out to be was in front of my eyes; with every picture, comment, and reply telling you something about myself.
The thought that I was an open book, open to any of the hundreds of people who followed me to read, made me uncomfortable. So much so that I felt like there was only one solution.
To delete everything. So I did. I deleted every single picture and trace of my Instagram account. It felt like a part of me was gone, but a new one was (re)born.
I still don’t know what my relationship with media is. Its like we are a couple who took an indefinite break. The love is still there, whenever I take a peek at someone’s Instagram in the metro, I feel like I’ve been cheated on. That I’m missing out on this mediated reality.
In the end, I feel like I know nothing about my media, but my media knows everything about myself.
Iuri Bertie , 13759086