#digitalexistentialism

[boredtechnologist]

"Signalis," an indie survival horror game, draws players into a haunting, dystopian world where the line between humanity and machinery is blurred, and the concept of free will is constantly questioned. Central to the game's narrative is the phrase "None of us are here by choice," a powerful statement that encapsulates the existential themes of the game. This analysis will delve into the implications of this phrase, exploring how it reflects the characters' struggles with agency, identity, and the oppressive systems that govern their lives.

Choice and Agency: "Signalis" immerses players in a bleak, retro-futuristic world where characters, primarily synthetic beings with human-like qualities, are trapped in a cycle of duty and survival. The phrase "None of us are here by choice" serves as a thematic cornerstone, suggesting that the characters’ presence in this world, and their roles within it, are dictated by forces beyond their control. This lack of choice highlights the game's exploration of agency—whether the characters, or by extension the players, have any true autonomy in their actions or are merely following predetermined paths.

Transition to the Loss of Identity and Free Will: As players progress through "Signalis," the narrative reveals that the characters, particularly the protagonist, struggle with a fractured sense of identity. They are synthetic beings, engineered to serve specific purposes, with memories and emotions that may not be their own. This artificiality strips them of the ability to choose their paths in life, as their actions are heavily influenced, if not entirely dictated, by their programming and the roles imposed upon them. The statement "None of us are here by choice" thus resonates with the characters’ existential dread, as they grapple with the realization that their sense of self and autonomy might be nothing more than an illusion.

The Oppressive Systems and Lack of Choice: The world of "Signalis" is governed by a cold, bureaucratic regime that views its synthetic inhabitants as tools to be used rather than beings with agency. This oppressive system further reinforces the notion that none of the characters are present by choice. They are created, assigned roles, and expected to fulfill their duties without question. The game’s environment—a series of bleak, industrial landscapes filled with broken machinery and lifeless corridors—reflects the dehumanizing nature of this system. The absence of choice becomes a pervasive element, driving home the sense of entrapment and futility experienced by the characters.

The Psychological Impact of Lack of Choice: The realization that their lives are devoid of true choice has a profound psychological impact on the characters in "Signalis." This theme echoes existentialist ideas, particularly those of Jean-Paul Sartre, who argued that the recognition of one’s lack of control can lead to a crisis of identity and meaning. The characters' struggles with their roles, the haunting repetition of their tasks, and the oppressive nature of their environment all contribute to a deep sense of despair and nihilism. The phrase "None of us are here by choice" becomes a mantra that underscores the game’s exploration of these existential anxieties.

The Enduring Significance of Choice: "Signalis" is a game that uses its haunting narrative and atmospheric design to delve into the complexities of choice, or rather, the absence of it. The phrase "None of us are here by choice" encapsulates the characters’ struggles with agency, identity, and the dehumanizing systems that control their existence. Through its exploration of these themes, the game offers a profound commentary on the nature of free will and the psychological toll of living in a world where choice is an illusion. This analysis highlights how "Signalis" uses its narrative to challenge players to reflect on their own perceptions of agency and the systems that shape their lives, making it a deeply introspective and thought-provoking experience.

[digitalspectres]

If social media is a costume party, can we wear our real faces?

It’s strange—even on this blog, where I can be a n o n y m o u s, I still find myself thinking about how I come across. I want to be honest, but there’s this subtle pull to craft a version of myself that feels more polished. I catch myself editing my words, curating the vibe of my blog, and choosing the aesthetic that feels just right. It’s not about how I look—more about how I m o v e through the world, the parts of me I show, and the parts I keep to myself.

In a world that’s increasingly filtered through screens, I sometimes wonder how much of myself is actually me. Digital spaces offer this strange power: I can choose how I present myself, how I engage, and what pieces of me I want to share. F r e e d o m comes with it, but so does a quiet uncertainty. Even with all this control, I’m still navigating the same internal landscape. The only difference is that now, it’s through a screen.

These s p a c e s draw me in because they let me express things I might not say out loud—thoughts that feel too complicated or vulnerable in the real world. It’s comforting to know that if someone resonates with me, it’s not because I’ve bared every detail of myself, but because I’ve been honest in the way I’ve chosen to show up.

But even with that, I still hold back. I don’t take photos or videos at concerts or music festivals, even though those are some of my favorite places. To me, those experiences are too pure to be filtered through the lens of social media, turned into something for clout. So, while I show up in digital spaces, there’s still a piece of me that stays off-screen—not because I’m hiding it, but because I want to keep some things just for me.

Maybe that’s the real tension I’m trying to navigate: in a world that asks for curated selves, how do we balance showing up authentically while keeping what’s ours—what’s p r i v a t e—and what’s worth keeping to ourselves?

In the end, it’s about connection, right? I crave that moment when someone truly resonates with me. Maybe that’s what it means to be real: showing up with your imperfections and contradictions, even if they’re left unspoken. It’s not about having everything figured out, but about being willing to explore who you are—digitally or not.

As Kafka once said, “I was ashamed of myself when I realized life was a costume party and I attended with my real face.” Maybe that’s the hardest part—finding the courage to show up as you are, even when everyone else is hiding behind their own masks. In this digital space, maybe showing up with your real face is the truest act of rebellion.

[digitalspectres]

SYSTEM ERROR : digital girl interrupted

When my boyfriend stays home, the apartment vibes shift. My c a r e f u l l y calibrated bed-rotting, lazy girl, stay-at-home-girlfriend routine d i s s o l v e s into something unrecognizable. Doom-scrolling feels less indulgent, catching up on trash current events loses its appeal. Work doesn’t happen, but neither does full relaxation.

The space feels messier, like entropy speeds up in his presence. It's like we generate more c h a o s together—or maybe I clean less when he’s around. Either way, the balance tilts.

Yesterday, the rain kept him home. One of his jobs is outside, and they can’t work in the rain. Today, the f o r e c a s t is uncertain—there’s a chance he’ll be back. The glitch lingers, the gynoid m a l f u n c t i o n s . 

[digitalspectres]

If ghosts exist in the digital world, where do they haunt?

I think about the dead a lot. Not in a morbid way, but in the way they linger. The way they persist, pixelated and frozen in time, caught in the web of their last posts, last photos, last words. If ghosts exist, surely they would haunt the places they were tethered to in life. And now, those places are digital.

My ex took his own life when we were young. His MySpace was there for a while, untouched, drifting in the digital ether until MySpace itself c o l l a p s e d , taking him with it. That was the first time I realized that social media had an afterlife, a place where the dead still exist in some strange, preserved form. His presence on my friends list felt like a weight, a quiet reminder of the things I couldn’t change. And then, one day, he was gone—not because I let go, but because a server did.

Other friends remain. Their Facebooks persist like abandoned homes, unchanged by time except when someone stops by to leave flowers in the form of a comment. “Miss you.” “Thinking of you today.” It’s unsettling, how these spaces exist in a kind of suspended animation, untouched by their owners but still present in the digital landscape. When I still had Facebook, I would see these pages appear in my feed, a mix of the living and the dead, as if the platform couldn’t tell the difference. It made me wonder if I wanted my own ghost to linger like that. If one day, my name would surface in someone’s notifications long after I was gone.

Recently, I found an archive of an old account I once had, a relic from another time. My screen name back then was something like LostGirl. It wasn’t a name chosen in grief, just a fragment of teenage melodrama—posts about getting grounded, skipping class, hanging out with my boyfriend, who would later become one of those ghosts in the machine. I didn’t know then what that space would come to mean, how those old posts would feel like echoes of a life that never saw what was coming. Maybe that’s the real haunting: not just the presence of the dead, but the versions of ourselves we leave behind, waiting to be rediscovered.

There have to be millions of these digital graveyards, profiles left behind, untouched and abandoned. What does it mean to haunt a place that no longer needs a physical presence? Are these accounts monuments, or are they traps, binding them to us, binding us to them? Maybe the d e a d don’t haunt these spaces at all. Maybe we do—returning to pages frozen in time, searching for something that isn’t there, letting an algorithm resurrect memories we didn’t ask for.

Perhaps the real question isn’t where digital ghosts haunt, but why we keep returning to them. Why do we let ourselves be pulled into the orbit of these fragmented, pixelated echoes? Maybe it’s not about answers, but about the quiet, aching pull of what we leave behind—and what we can’t let go of.

[digitalspectres]

Chaos Theory and the Art of Falling Apart

Sometimes, I feel like I’m a glitch in my own system—a d i s j o i n t e d algorithm trying to process too many inputs at once. Every project, every idea, every new thing I want to learn screams for attention, and I’m pulled in so many directions that I’m not sure which way is forward. It’s like living in a state of perpetual c h a o s, where the noise of everything I “want” to do drowns out the signal of what I should be doing.

I spread myself thin, scattering tiny pieces of progress everywhere. A line of code here, a paragraph there, a half-formed thought scribbled in the margins of my mind. It’s messy. It’s inefficient. And yet, it’s the only way I know how to m o v e .

My computer is a patchwork of operating systems—Linux for gaming and coding, Windows for the rest, each groaning under the weight of too many programs running simultaneously.  My brain feels the same way: compartmentalized and f r a g m e n t e d, with different browsers open for different projects, each one bloated with a million tabs. Every time I try to focus, another alert pings, another idea flashes, and I’m yanked into a new rabbit hole before I can even bookmark where I left off.

It’s paralyzing, but it’s also exhilarating. I thrive on hyper-focus. When I let myself fall into the flow of one thing—whether it’s coding, writing, or chasing a random thought—I can move mountains in an afternoon. It’s not linear nor orderly, but it’s mine.

I’ve learned to stop fighting the chaos. Instead, I’ve started to w o r k with it. I sacrifice long-term goals for short-term o b s e s s i o n s , because the little wins keep me going. I surround myself with projects that could lead somewhere bigger, even if I’m only dipping into them for a moment. It’s not about neat, organized progress. It’s about finding the rhythm in the mess.

Maybe that’s the beauty of it? Even when it feels like I’m falling apart, I’m still creating. I’m still moving. The road is disjointed, g l i t c h y , and full of detours, but it’s still leading me somewhere.

So here’s to the chaos. To the hyper-focus that burns bright and fast. To the tiny progress that adds up, even when it feels like nothing at all. To the art of falling apart, and the strange, f r a g m e n t e d beauty of putting yourself back together, one pixel at a time.

[digitalspectres]

If any girlies are up for collaborating on some Github projects, hmu. I’m thinking of using some standard datasets to run basic models, just to balance out my chaotic school projects with something a little cleaner and more aesthetic! Would be cool to do fashion or artsy type of analysis (not generating art though). Thanks! Should probably specify that I am most comfortable with Python, and a little with MATLAB, but I am open to learning Rust too.

[digitalspectres]

G L I T C H OVERRIDE: Redirecting Energy to Core Systems

Booting up. Recalibrating. Restoring default settings.

Two days of unexpected interference—a g l i t c h in the system. My carefully coded routines f r a g m e n t e d, c o r r u p t e d by the presence of another user in the shared space. The quiet mornings, the slow and deliberate pacing of my day, the indulgent mix of hyper-focus and mindless scrolling—all s u s p e n d e d . My boyfriend works hard and deserves to rest when he can, and since he pays for this space, he has every right to exist in it as freely as I do. But when he’s home, the balance shifts. Now that he’s back at work, I initiate the override.

My mornings are predictable in the way I like. With my cats ! ✨ Jupiter, who was abandoned too early, purrs loudly against my face before settling in to knead and suckle on the blanket. Juniper sits on my chest, radiating silent judgment over the tiny, glitched void in an otherwise full food bowl—anomalous data in her perfectly calibrated system, flagged for immediate correction. That’s my signal to get up, feed them, make breakfast (for my boyfriend and the cats), make coffee (for my boyfriend and myself), and help him get out the door.

Once the apartment is mine again, I move through the day on my own terms. Small wins stack up—writing, reading, patching away at my backlog—without another person’s presence pulling me into a different rhythm. I let my attention drift when it wants to, doomscroll just enough to satisfy some part of my b r a i n before snapping back into something 'productive.'

Interruptions don’t just pause routines; they rearrange them. There’s more to clean, new tasks that weren’t on my list, and a lingering sense that everything is slightly out of place. The s p a c e , like me, needs to be reset—maybe saged .

So, I adjust. Shift things back into alignment. Redirect energy to the core systems: writing, creating, existing in the quiet. This isn’t just passive recovery—it’s an o v e r r i d e . A manual rewrite of the code until the rhythm syncs back to my pulse.

THE SYSTEM STABILIZES.

[digitalspectres]

Laying Down Digital Bricks

For a long time, I’ve avoided putting too much of myself out there. Not out of fear, exactly—but because it felt cringey. I never wanted to be scattered across the internet, too exposed in ways I couldn’t control, or too curated in ways that felt artificial. But lately, I’ve been thinking about how I exist—not just in the physical world, but in the online spaces I occupy. How we shape different versions of ourselves, depending on where we are. It’s not l i n e a r like a Russian nesting doll, where each layer fits neatly inside the next. It’s more like a web—a neural network of identities, each one connected in ways that aren’t always obvious.

So today, instead of just thinking about it, I’m going to do something about it. I want to be as intentional about my digital spaces as I am about my physical ones. Tumblr can be one horcrux, but what about the rest? Maybe it’s time to polish up my GitHub, explore long-form platforms for writing, or find new Discord spaces that align with my interests. Not in a “networking” way, but in a “let’s see what happens when I lay down each digital brick and see what it builds” kind of way.

Because as I figure out where I fit in these spaces, I have to wonder—am I also figuring out my own shape? Identity isn’t something fixed; it’s something we map out over time. Each space I explore, each connection I make, adds another point to the map. And maybe, by mapping small sections at a time, I’ll start to understand the structure I’ve been building all along.

It’s like running a mapping algorithm: you start with a few scattered data points, and over time, the connections between them begin to form a clearer s h a p e. The yellow brick road wasn’t built all at once—it was laid brick by brick, each one creating the path before the destination was even known(or was it? idk, I didn't read the book 💀). Maybe that’s what I’m doing here: tracing the roads that will take me somewhere worth building—laying down the foundations before I even know what they’ll become

[digitalspectres]

I am hermit-maxxing.

‘ You’re a radar. Built to scan the deeps of o u t e r s p a c e ’

[digitalspectres]

Delicate Descent

I don’t know how to start this, but here we are.

This is a space for my thoughts, an attempt at making sense of the forsaken state of humanity—watching as climate change, technology, and capitalism race toward some inevitable disaster. I’m not sure which will win, but I have a feeling we won’t. A delicate descent into something I feel but can't name.

I have a background in technology and psychology, which mostly means I overanalyze everything and think too much about the ways we build (and break) the world. Somewhere between data and desire, between machine logic and human ruin, I wonder if I’m just another digital ghost—haunting spaces that don’t quite feel r e a l.

Let’s see where this goes. Or doesn’t.

'So it goes.' - Kurt Vonnegut