In 2024, flipping the switch to AFK mode feels like borderline insanity—a rarity, a privilege, and a quiet rebellion against the relentless hum of being online. Since ICQ, OG 4chan, mIRC, and MySpace, I’ve been unapologetically, irreversibly, and maybe even unhealthily chronically online (C.O.). My day is basically a stream of pings, DMs, and endless tabs, with notifs stacking up like Bust-A-Move bubbles.
And yet, over the past few years, something shifted. Algo-fed sludge and the nonstop scroll of content started to feel more like a trap than a thrill. Exhaustion crept in. Even as someone who's at home in the depths of the Internet, I began craving space—space to breathe, to exist, to step out of the hyper-visibility feedback loop. That’s when Shibuya, the beating heart of Tokyo and where I live, became my paradoxical exit hatch.
This neighborhood is a vortex of movement, sound, and light. But somehow, in this sea of tourists, salarymen, neon, and 24/7 energy, I’ve carved out my own quiet. I slip into the background, disappear into the crowd, and find calm in becoming invisible. An NPC in the sprawl of the megalopolis, I sync with the urban symphony, no longer “on” but simply there.
I call it recalibration, not disconnection. I’m not logging off entirely (FOMO is still a thing), but I’ve learned to unplug just enough to rediscover balance.
The Toll of Being C.O.
Living always-on comes at a price. Philosopher Byung-Chul Han’s The Burnout Society spells it out—our hyperconnected lives lock us into endless cycles of productivity and hypervisibility. Within our li'l Web3 ecosystem, the symptoms are painfully clear: burnout, exhaustion, FOMO at max levels, and that dopamine-fueled loop of stickers, likes, comments, tip$, and retweets.
Logging off seems risky—like losing ground, missing opportunities, or betraying the hustle culture we’ve bought into. But the grind takes its toll. For me, Shibuya’s density—its overwhelming vibe—became the unexpected antidote. Wandering aimlessly through its streets, I enjoy being the offline flâneur. It’s my way of pressing pause.
In this iconic hub, the sensory overload is intense, but slowing down feels almost refreshing. Anonymity flows naturally here. I let go of my URL identity, my token-gated communities, and my infinite feeds to simply exist. And I know I’m not alone. Among my frens and fellow degens, I notice the same fatigue—a desire to steer clear of the churn and just chill for a bit.
(Re)discovering 4nonymity
Anon life AFK hits different. Online, being “pseudonymous” means cultivating an identity, shaping how others see you, and carefully managing your persona. But IRL, it’s effortless. In Shibuya, I’m not a PFP, I’m not a Lens profile—I’m just another face. No labels, no expectations, no constant gaze. Just me. Myself.
Sherry Turkle’s Alone Together explores the paradox of being "connected yet alone" in the digital world, highlighting how online anonymity, while freeing in some ways, still involves a form of performance or curation. Offline, though, “obscurity” isn’t the same deal; it’s natural and transformative. In a place like Shibuya, with its frenzy, I personally discover a playground for solitude within the swarm. For any C.O., this kind of freedom offers a unique getaway—one that can’t be replicated on the web.
But let’s not romanticize it too much. Escaping the internet isn’t a full retreat. My phone’s still in my pocket, socials are still buzzing, and FOMO’s still lurking. The goal isn’t to completely unplug—that’s unrealistic. It’s about balance. It’s about carving out small moments where you can have fun outside the hellgorithms.
From C.O. to Mindfully Present
These moments of refocusing remind me why logging off is so important. As someone who's been online since the dial-up days and now spends most of my time onchain, I’ve seen just how relentless it can be. The grind never stops. The feeds never stop. And somewhere in that noise, we forget to reset.
The city's intensity gives me that relief. Its density allows me to vanish in plain sight, fusing into the surroundings rather than the feed. Mark Fisher’s Capitalist Realism touches on the crushing demands of productivity, and honestly, our online existences aren’t much different. The pressure to engage, perform, and show up can be tiring.
Here, I experience an uncommon peace. I walk, sneak into game centers, lose hours in manga kissa, or grab a latte at my favorite spot. These aren’t grand acts of resistance—they’re small, deliberate choices to withdraw from the hustle.
Finding Fr33dom
In a reality where everything feels accounted for and visible, Shibuya gives me the capacity to fade away. I'm surrounded by random people and can lose myself without actually going anywhere. It’s not a retreat, but a special kind of mindfulness—being in the moment without being observed.
This isn’t just my personal experience; I can definitely see it in others, too. There’s def a universal hunger for calm, for spaces where we can exist without the constant pull of our screens.
In the end, everyone wants to reclaim their digital lives rather than reject them. For me, Shibuya’s tumult is where I find my fr33dom: a balance between the craziness of the Internet and the outside world. Ofc it’s ironic, but maybe that’s the point. Once in a while, in the busiest places, you can find the quietude you’ve been looking for.
So, here’s to recalibrating. To stepping back. To tapping into those little pockets of slowlitude—whether it’s over a large McDo fries in Miyashita, a good read & cocoa at White Glass , or simply a lazy stroll around Harajuku. Because sometimes, the most radical thing you can do is just exist.
brb~
b.
