I had originally planned on making a whole series of these, which would finally culminate in my overall thoughts of Cohost. The first one was my first fiction piece I ever posted here. I only ever did the one, but since this is going to be my last post on this site, it felt fitting to finish what I started. It was August 1st, 2023. It is September 30th, 2024. Those two dates should have been much further apart.
I stepped, for the last time, into the realm that became my home. This was my refuge as the shattering of the new internet became apparent, as social media began to collapse in on the weight of the Advertisers.
They never made their way here. The Advertisers could, perhaps, have kept this realm stable for a while, I’m sure. Their money would have prevented the collapse. Yet once it was announced that Cohost could no longer sustain itself, that the realm’s collapse was inevitable, no one ever suggested we allow The Advertisers in to stabilize us.
It would have killed this place, in a different way.
I wander the streets as I always do in these realms, but not as a stranger. Not anymore. I see faces I recognize. I see a crow pass overhead, and give it a wave. It loves the moon as much as I, and I know I will see them both in other realms, so I don’t linger. There are others I see who I do not linger on - an angel who is in the process of freeing themselves by falling, a flower that beams at me with a sun-bright smile, a warrior with fangs for teeth, and so many more I know I will see elsewhere. My greetings to them are brief but warm.
We had time to prepare for the collapse.
Homes were built elsewhere. Or, at least, houses. Some went back to Tumblr, the former home of so many of us. Some have moved to the NeoCities, a relic of the web that was recreated in the now. Others have made their homes in the Dreamwidth, yet another recreated relic of a bygone age. There are those that have moved to the soft walls of the Pillowfort, or made their homes among the scattered islands of the Mastodons, or those that sought refuge above in the BlueSky. Still more have taken their leave entirely of the social realms, building for themselves in the RSS sea, the primordial soup of the Web that Was, or going to the Itch where they can share stories and games but naught else. Some are looking to build a Website League to protect against future collapse, and others are simply dwelling in the chat clients like those who wandered the AOL Chatrooms of old.
I’m building homes everywhere for now.
But none of them are here.
I see a dragon who inspired many saying farewell to a gaggle of yinglets and kobolds. I see skunks and foxes and sharks gathered to clasp hands and share where they will go next. I see taurs roaming in groups, scooping up anyone smaller in massive hugs and assuring them this is only goodbye for now. I see robots and combat dolls share data packets in quiet intimacy in the final days. CSS Criminals weave their last acts of crime as monuments to their existence. Prompt authors offer final tales to anyone who will listen, furry artists show off their favorite creations in final galleries, shitposters and effortposters both make their final statements. I see the systems, ever shifting, and to them, I give my first dedicated farewell, walking through the cloud of swarming eggbugs that bumble about me.
I’m one of them. This place taught me I didn’t need to hide my faces. To them, I cannot give enough thanks for finally being able to say I am we with confidence. The rest of my system wants me to pass along those thanks as well.
I move then to the creatures, the therians. They get my next thanks. I think I’m one of them. I wish I’d had more time to be sure, but I promise them that I won’t give up questioning that until I’m certain, and thank them for giving me the space to ask in the first place.
Then the prompt authors. I contributed to their final word, although many have found we have one last story to tell. They allowed me to rediscover joy at crafting words, and I dedicate the first book I will grace with my true name to them.
Next the TTRPG designers, who made me feel at home exploring an old passion I'd long buried. They've changed the way I think about being creative, and reminded me to create for myself sometimes.
There are so many more I must thank, one by one, but time is short. It is the last day of this realm. Then the Staff who built this place, their love evident in every line, will crystallize it with the last of their power. They’ll hold it in place for as long as that strength lasts, along with the strength we lent them via the ritual of Cohost+ and the individual blessings of the Artist Alley. That power is finite. This realm will collapse. But its echo will be held in the halls of the Archive and the gears of the Wayback.
More than that, however, the echo of Cohost will live in those that called it home.
Compared to the grim realm I last visited, Cohost is full of life. There may be robots, but there are no swarming cloud of malicious bots powered by the Algorithm. The Algorithm never touched this place, and its masters in The Advertisers never found foothold here. Instead it’s full of people - people of all shapes and sizes, but people. And they are talking, they are laughing, they are crying and holding hands, but they have also remembered that this is not the end.
There were lessons here. Talk to each other. Interact like humans. Ignore the numbers, forget the clout. Make connections - real, honest, human connections.
Ahead, I see my destination. The last stop on my farewell tour.
The Plaza of Legends.
Here is Ryan Gosling preserved as a pillar of salt. The child of Omelas sits on the ground, playing with a GameBoy, both of them free of their torment. The New Garfield exchanges hugs with Intern Secretary Eggbug, while Edgebug pretends she doesn’t care. The Pictionary Bot provides another drawing of Eggbug, one at the age he should have reached. Yuri and Yaoi sit at a table, living in harmony.
Above them all hovers the Eggbug, happy as he flitters about among us all.
There’s more, but my vision has grown blurry and tears run freely now, because near the named legends are the stories. The real Legends. The people that made this place what it was. The Staff built it and the memes grew here, but without the people chosting there would be no reason to be sad.
Here are our memorials. Our histories, our posts, frozen in time. Some are left to share openly. Some have locked theirs so only those who knew them here could see them. Some have opted to not freeze those memories in crystal. Because this is a human place, even the hidden and the absent are beautiful, because they are a reminder that this place let us control our own stories. Not the Algorithm. Not the Advertisers. But us.
Even those who left no trace left an impression in how this memorial is shaped.
I’m leaving my memorial open. I don’t know if anyone will read it. But maybe someone will. Maybe someone will see this and remember that Cohost was a Webbed Site, where it was like posting, but better.
A 503 error hits, and for a moment the realm freezes. Everything goes white. It passes quickly but scores of people who had left are logging in for the last day. It’s a reminder I do not have forever. Time is passing, and the end is less than 24 hours away.
I was going to have a plan left here, of where those who wandered by could find my next book. I have scattered links to myself throughout this tale, and that will have to be enough.
I close the book now, to leave it on the memorial.
A clawed hand closes the book, revealing the inscription on the cover.
I was here
Estrogen-And-Spite
Sylvia Anathema Lilith
The Epoch System
Author, Trans Woman,
Hypno Domme, Hopeless Romantic,
Sadist, System, and likely Therian.
I lived, I breathed
And so did you.
I loved, I wept.
And so did you.
Here, I was genuine
And so were you.
I don’t know who you were.
But I know that I loved you
Because you were here
Because you were home
And a home cannot be a home
Unless it is full of love.
And hey, end of the day
I saw a cool bug
He was made
Of egg.
The claw traces the spine of the book, and then a tentacle reaches from the figure’s back and gently takes the book and places it where it belongs, in the Wall of Farewells. She smiles at it, her eyes brimming with tears that she wipes away. For a moment, she lingers. Then she looks up to the moon. And with a final bow to those that made this place home, it ascends to find where she and the moon will head next.
And to go find everyone whose heart touched hers.
