And finally, fysbwk — on Facebook. The place where memory goes to perform. Where every friend is a stranger you have trained not to ask too much. Where the identical multiplies, and the singular starves.
And in that increase, I am not multiplied. I am diluted. ttbyqat zyadt almtabyn ly fysbwk
They tell me: “ttbyqat” — applications, layers, tools for fitting in. But applications are just rituals of conformity dressed in code. You scroll, you tap, you curate a ghost — and the ghost learns to want. And finally, fysbwk — on Facebook
Here’s a deep, reflective text based on the phrase you shared (which appears to be Arabic in transliterated form: “طبيعات زيادة المتطابق لي فيسبوك” — roughly “The nature of the increase of the identical to me on Facebook”). Where the identical multiplies, and the singular starves
Almtabyn — the identical. But what is identical is not the same. Identical profiles, identical captions, identical loneliness wrapped in sunset filters. They match my tastes but not my tremors. They mirror my words but not my 3 a.m. silence.
To be truly seen is not to be mirrored. It is to be recognized in one’s unshareable quiet. But the platform has no room for quiet. Only for ttbyqat . Only for zyadt . Only for the endless, hungry cloning of almtabyn — served cold, ly , on a blue screen.
Ly — to me. Not for me. Not through me. Just “to me” — as if identity were an address, not a wound. As if the self could be delivered in a push notification.