Multiplicity of truths.
How intriguing it is to find yourself seen through the lens of someone else's perspective. There also comes a point, however, when the multiplicity becomes solipsism, and the loathing you glimpse in that foreign perspective is clouded by self-pity. History is written by the winners, it seems, but there are no winners when we find ourselves on the wrong end of a thousand sharp days and the lonelier gulf of a foggy memory.
The internet makes itself dangerous by its very nature. A web of thorns that connects and curls in on itself, so every empty branch is inextricably tied to every needling briar. Its illusion of confidence is the other dagger in the back; you write what you believe to be a confessional, in the booth, and you find on the other side of the screen not a priest, but a microphone. Anonymity in this space is hard to come by, and impossible to recapture when it's lost.
But there are no means to correct some mistakes, and there are no ways to take back the words that have polluted the air of the past. History is dust, and the dusty fingers of broken sentences and half-remembered slights will choke you to death with papyrus grasp.
In plainer language, I have found on the Internet a page written from someone I knew a ways ago. What had once been affection has curdled into hate, and since before the anger was attraction I was unaware regardless.
The nature of existence is to stumble blindly through the world and hope when the lights come on at the end of things you haven't knocked too much over.