Eirene Evripidou - (Ειρήνη Ευριπίδου)

You asked me who reads what I write? You mean on Facebook? I could check the analytics, watch the numbers flicker, measure my worth in impressions and reach. But what would that tell me, really? That a machine decided who was worthy of seeing my words. That visibility is rationed. That attention is engineered and traded like currency — amplified for profit, throttled without notice, auctioned to the highest bidder.

Social media doesn’t reflect reality — it curates it. It trims and tailors the world into something profitable. It feeds you what keeps you scrolling, what keeps you docile, what keeps you buying. It calls that “engagement.” It calls that “community.” It calls that “free speech.”

But free speech inside an algorithm is not free. It is filtered. It is ranked. It is shadowed and amplified according to rules you will never see and cannot challenge. It is the illusion of a public square built on private code.

And so if my words do not travel — if they are buried beneath sponsored noise or drowned in curated comfort — that is not proof they lack weight. It is proof that the gatekeepers have changed shape. They are no longer censors with red pens. They are lines of code deciding what is visible and what quietly disappears.

This is how erosion happens now. Not in dramatic silencing, but in subtle diminishing. Not in burning books, but in burying posts. Not in overt bans, but in quiet throttling. Voice by voice, edge by edge, until what remains is smooth, marketable, harmless.

Erasure no longer arrives with force. It arrives with indifference.

And if my words fall into deaf ears, then yes — I will repeat myself. I will repeat myself because repetition is resistance against erosion. Memory is the antidote to erasure.

I will repeat myself until your narrow, made-up minds — built on fragments and half-fed narratives — are forced to confront something real. Until you stop taking fragments out of context and clinging to verdicts without even the pretense of due process. You mistake noise for truth. You live inside illusions polished into certainty, delusions reinforced by your own bias and the algorithm that feeds it.

And I am punished not for being wrong — but for seeing beyond the frame you were taught to trust.

And since I’m talking about repetition:

You Will No Longer Live in My Head Rent-Free — So Fuck Off

Every time your name sparked,
with every replay of what you did,
you were storming through me-
and I was locking you in,
punishing myself instead of you.

But not anymore.

You don’t get my thoughts.
You don’t get to live inside me.
You don’t get to be the echo
of what you broke.

Not forgiveness.
Just eviction.
The truth still lives.
The verdict will be delivered-
just not by me.

I let you go.
Your ghosts are not mine to carry.

The millennial girl in me is getting nostalgic.

⋆ ✧˚₊I miss the old static web, when the internet felt more human and connection wasn’t filtered through algorithms curating our reality and shaping what we see, who we meet, and how we connect. Followers weren’t the goal. Creativity was.⋆ ✧˚₊

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You know so little you know about me, and yet somehow you confidently claim to know me. To follow my work. To understand me. To be proud of me. To even dislike me. But how?
What you actually do is collect fragments which mosts times are wildly out of context, irrelevant, or simply inaccurate — and then curate an opinion that is not merely wrong, but painstakingly prejudiced. Almost artisanal in its epistemic negligence.

And not accidentally so. It is methodical. The process is calibrated — not to understand, but to wound. To press precisely where it hurts, so that when anger follows, you can step back and assume the posture of the injured party.

You do not know me.

This is not rhetoric. It is epistemology.

You do not know a person by collecting fragments. You do not know them through hearsay, partial records, or moments stripped of their context. People are not puzzles to be solved by stacking pieces until they resemble something familiar.

Aristotle understood this plainly: knowing facts — even assuming what one has are facts — is not the same as knowing people. Human beings cannot be understood by rules alone; they require judgement, attention, and time.

Later philosophers echoed this insight. The moment you turn a person into something neat and explainable, you have already stopped seeing them. You have replaced encounter with control. People take what little they know and treat it as sufficient; when something does not fit, they call it a defect, a problem to be managed or dismissed. In doing so, they do not meet a person — they construct a version of one that feels manageable.

Understanding is replaced with interpretation, and interpretation with judgement. Incomplete information is treated as enough; contradiction is read as defect; complexity is dismissed as inconvenience.

In contemporary terms, this constitutes a form of epistemic injustice. As Miranda Fricker argues, individuals can be wronged specifically in their capacity as knowers when their credibility is unfairly diminished or when imposed interpretive frameworks erase their lived reality (Epistemic Injustice). In such cases, the failure is not merely cognitive, but moral.

What results is not a person but an object — static, simplified, and safely misunderstood. Ludwig Wittgenstein warned against precisely this temptation when he criticised the urge to explain human meaning by stripping it of lived context, reminding us that understanding is grounded in forms of life, not isolated data (Philosophical Investigations). When context is removed, what remains may look orderly, but it is no longer true.

This is why the error here is not innocent. Why it cuts.

When a knower is aware that their understanding is partial, yet proceeds as though it were complete, the failure ceases to be accidental. In epistemic ethics, knowingly acting on insufficient understanding constitutes negligence. The obligation to inquire increases with recognised uncertainty; it does not vanish because inquiry is inconvenient.

This is not error.
It is negligence.

You will not know a person by what others say about them. You will not fully know them by what is written down. You will not even know them completely by their own words. Words shift. Context shifts. Survival shapes what people say.

If you are going to know a person at all, it happens elsewhere: in what they do when no one is watching; in the choices they make when there is nothing to gain; in the care they show when there is no reward, no audience, and no record.

That is where a person becomes answerable to themselves.

Everything else is easier — and wrong.
It conceals rather than reveals.

The following excerpt comes from the poem Called by Its Name: Violence, part of A Rose Written in Verse:

I am my closest witness.
Not fragments.
Not labels.
Not rumour stitched into a mask.
I am the living record
you never studied,
yet sentenced anyway.

So let every judgement
be built from my whole body of truth,
not from echoes
ricocheting off walls
you trust too easily.

You want to know me?
Ask me.
Not the shadows.
Ask me—
for once.

© Eirene Evripidou

And the final note: If you don’t like what I write, you know where to put your opinions — and how far to push them. No additional guidance will be offered. Thanks!

Read how we “Accepted” the fall.

I’m a girl born under the dawning sky of a grey city. I’m a girl with eyes like an ocean storm – purple and blue and green. A girl with words burning on her lips, longing to be free. Oh, I’m a poet-girl, a dandelion wish, the release of stardust from an indigo sky. Roses, moonlight and staining love.
I’m the girl that fell in love with a boy with dark moon eyes. Love-filled eyes that leave me breathless.
Fragile, oh, never again. Today I am free.
How can love ever be ephemeral?

I kept my silence for too long.
I let them take and take until there was almost nothing left of me.

I let their words sink in—cutting deeper than any blade.
They say sticks and stones, but words?
Words are sharper. Heavier. More dangerous.
They linger. They bruise the soul.

I let the hate, the anger, the fear, the arrogance rise like a tide around me —
I nearly drowned.

But not now.
Not ever again.

You cannot quiet me anymore.
I will not be reshaped by your shadows, your fears, your predispositions.
I will not be bent into something I was never born to be—and never consented to become.

My voice is my own — unyielding.
And it will echo until the end.

“I came back for you. I will always come back for you.”

Darling, for two years I thought believing was enough. Just breathing… And I waited. But I only saw though veils. I did see you but it meant nothing. I think we were just killing time, you and me, and faith is overrated.
I think I can see clearer now, now that the fog of our breath has cleared and I’m not censoring myself just because the world died before (it will die again) (and yes, darling, we’ll survive that too).