dead zone

Where do all the avatars go when they’re no longer are here?

I know, I know! Into the dead zone (cue the dramatic music!)

Second Life (SL) is littered with so many phantoms, or what I call fleeters, those who were there once and now not but have left their ghost in names, accounts and avatars which exist and don’t exist at the same time in a limbo. Once upon a time they’d run away to join the circus and then run away from that, the circus being SL, never to be seen again and yet their tantalising breadcrumbs are still to be found going stale.

Second life is becoming a graveyard of empty lives, of echoes, traces, corpses pretty much, the dead existing in name and statistics only on friends lists, on prims, in profiles: are they undead, in a coma, in hibernation, abducted by aliens, avi-napped?!

I know, I know! They’ve moved into Second Unlife, a holding pattern, a waiting room, stasis, perhaps an anteroom to a Second AfterLife. After all, some of them might come back one day though the longer they dn’t the less likely they will, while some most definitely won’t being that they shuffled their mortal coil in the real world leaving no clues as to what should happen to their SL-self, or Slelf, should they have pre-deceased their avatar. These are the spookiest, you know they’re gone and yet. Perhaps this is just like real death in real life (RL) where even though the person is gone they are still here in their photos, their old possessions, image, the things they’ve done, and in the minds and hearts of those closest to them.

SL is perhaps one of the largest graveyards in the virtual world, but without any actual graves, just a few with real names with most being merely facades, macabre playgrounds, impressions.

Fleeters are the lost boys and girls inhabiting a dead zone, a land of echoes, a shadowland consigned to forever do so, suspended on the cusp of a black hole not escaping and yet not vanishing utterly inside to be crushed to nothing.

All these names with no one to claim them, that’s what I’d call an existential crisis.

© 2019 Anan Eebus