Roland Edmund


DNI: those who love engaging in fanwars, belong to fandoms that enjoy bullying others, or are part of fandoms that love playing the victim card.


If you’re wondering why— this 27-year-old is already exhausted by the nonsense in real life. No point adding more of it online.


He’s twenty-seven, old enough to play the part, too young to believe it’s real. Every day begins the same way: a tired glance at the screen, a halfhearted sip of coffee, a quiet negotiation with himself to get through another round of the same loop. He types with precision, smiles when he has to, and signs off every email with a tone that sounds functional enough to hide the fatigue behind it. Somewhere along the line, his name became an extension of his job title — another username inside an endless network of corporate greetings and automated replies.

He used to think this was adulthood: productivity, structure, stability. But it turns out it’s more like a simulation with good lighting. Meetings that sound like déjà vu. Notifications that ring louder than thoughts. Conversations that begin and end with the same empty phrases. He’s surviving, not living — nodding through the noise, laughing through burnout, and finding strange comfort in chaos because at least chaos feels real.

The nights are worse. That’s when the silence starts to hum. He scrolls until the blue light burns the edge of his vision, chasing the illusion of company through pixels and words that disappear as fast as they appear. Everyone is here, yet no one’s really there. Love becomes a seen message, comfort a delayed reply. It’s a world that looks alive, but it’s hollow underneath. That’s what it means to exist in virtual insanity — to be surrounded, but untouched. To feel everything, yet nothing sticks.

This unlabeled account is his quiet defiance against that emptiness. A place where he can talk without performing, fall apart without editing, and remember that there’s still a pulse beneath all the static. He doesn’t post to impress or persuade — he writes to stay human. To remind himself that connection still means something, even if it’s fragile, fleeting, and buried under screens.

If you come here, come as you are. Bring your exhaustion, your oversharing, your chaos. Leave your filters at the door. Here, we exist somewhere between work deadlines and existential dread, between laughter and collapse. Here, it’s okay to be both broken and alive.

Welcome to his corner of the internet — part digital confessional, part emotional landfill. Maybe this isn’t healing, maybe it’s just coping. But in a world that won’t slow down, maybe that’s enough.

Edit

Pub: 16 Oct 2025 10:05 UTC

Edit: 08 Nov 2025 11:47 UTC

Views: 3415