It's really odd to think of a place online as a home, or to have such warm feelings about it, or to be kind of gutted when it goes away, but that's how I think about Cohost.
But more than that, I'd like to be able to say that Cohost shutting down was not just an end to a kinder, more thoughtful, more human web. I'd like to be able to say that it was also the beginning of something akin to movement; that Cohost users went elsewhere and brought with them a few things that the corporatized web had worked to destroy. A willingness to do things yourself. An appreciation for having meaningful conversations with a handful of people, rather than feeling – as Twitter often made me feel – like anything shy of engagement with thousands was a waste of time.
Most of all I'd like to say – and this is a kind of vulnerability that I don't enjoy engaging in, but it's true – that Cohost lives on, diffusely, elsewhere on the web but also – ugh – in our hearts. You know? That this shared experience had a meaningful impact in how we relate to others, and how we approach building things in the future. How we live our lives.
I'd really like to say that. Unfortunately I'm stuck hiding out in this abandoned seven eleven with fifty rounds of ammunition and a fucking idiot jarhead. I'm cut off from resupply, the nearest FOB is seventeen clicks of dirt road away, and the fucking tin cans have a new type of dog-shaped drone they designed to hunt me down through the underbrush. So yes, you keep your god damned helmet on and you don't speak, rookie.
