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Facebook (part 3): The find-back friends

Often, our search for former friends stems from a desire to return to our past. Old friends are like landmarks, defining times of passage. They represent safety, having built foundations of common experience. However, our effort to reunite may also be a symptom of psychological regression—our return to the familiar to avoid the unfamiliar. It may be best we determine carefully our motive before treading back, and should we find our cause is the result of present day hardship—resistance of our growing forward—then we may wish not to lose sight of our greater obligation, our truer task—our task of overcoming what stands now before us. Of course, this is easier understood than applied, as are most aspects of mental well-being, which sometimes may feel heavy to carry.
“Crisis is best left avoided,” mocks a common quote. But in truth, crisis is the essential component of our development. Crisis is the essence of it—as natural as our will to avoid it. That is why we should bring to light Facebook's subtle potential of escapism.

Further, is Facebook used to assist our numbing out today with found connections of past? Should we search more selectively, knowing how a single connection through Facebook’s lost and found could ignite countless pop-up friends, so to speak—those we may barely know but somehow seem eager to gather our friendship, boost their esteem, shower the gloom of their chronic happiness clean, sharing their triumphs over the daily bends of a monotony self-induced?

Perhaps it is not only time we endanger when traveling back; as we may compromise as well our present day unfolding—spreading ourselves thin over both yesterday and today. Does not tomorrow often fall upon us like an unplanned infant?

What if we simply break naturally from our past--those of then? What if our friends and connections should exceed our capacity to maintain them? What if we actually discard them with a keen natural selection of those we let fall away? What if those we lose are decided by our inner sense of governing time and necessity--a process wisely compacting our time-space so to ensure our development stays at play? Certainly it seems that nature employs components of advancement—its cleansing cycle of seasons, for instance, as solid as the structures of upper winds, currents of rivers--forces set seamlessly running the chambers of life's heartbeat.

But would there be a better time to examine our past in the way of Facebook? Should Facebook be condemned entirely in the corner of this seeming one angle view?

Perhaps we may find Facebook more worthwhile beyond middle-age, when we surpass our capacity to return to wonder. Does our yearning for "continuum" not wake within us later in life--when we finally grasp what has past?

Nothing to lose, it would seem, looking through Facebook during our later years--and how it may feel like turning the pages of a photo album, seeing the patterns and the trends of former times, seeing all the spending of our buying lives, now nearly sold—reflecting upon our higher gains, our lower rewards, seeing ourselves as the sum of all of our change carried and spilled within all of our betweens--those still alive in the folds of Facebook. But does our impatience perhaps spoil the aspect of our looking back to waste--our vitality draining today, as we search trembling through yesterday’s pages for connection--finding yesterdays not yet ripe for the sweeter taste of wiser insight--yesterday being a kind of surrender of our day now.

Moreover, we may wish to consider looking carefully through the wistful smoke of our memory. Is memory a function of our imagination, or is our imagination a function of memory? Hard to tell, perhaps, individual in relation to one's nature, maybe. But what matters most seems how memory pictures our past different than it actually was. Do those we find back in Facebook bear resemblance to the image we held in the far gaze of our mind? Perhaps "resemblance" is all we should hope for, and the finest of what we should wish for.
After all, does not memory paint the ugly average, the average beautiful, the beautiful divine; this being Her tender trick, perhaps, rather than Her mistaken deception.

Maybe the upgrade image of our memory is best left undisturbed—standing as it stands, quiet in the corners of our mind's eye looking back, blurred focus, leaving our face book nicely unrevised--scenes seen in the favorite colors for ourselves.


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