I Don’t Want to Be an Amplifier

I’ve been thinking a lot about how we navigate the internet these days, and honestly, it’s exhausting. It feels like every time you scroll, there’s this invisible game being played. People, or maybe we should call them “fire-starters,” just toss content into the void without much concern for whether it’s true or not. Sometimes, it’s obvious—they take an image, a short clip, and strip it of context until it tells the story they want. Other times, it’s subtler: a minor cut here, a blurred figure there, or a small alteration that makes the scene look entirely different. And somehow, it works.

I see this pattern everywhere. Take, for example, a video of a crowded street festival in a small town. In reality, it’s just locals enjoying a parade. But someone crops it, adds a misleading caption, and suddenly, it’s a warning of some imaginary cultural takeover. Or imagine a short clip from a school play where a kid acts out a historical scene. Some viewers spin it into an outrage story completely unrelated to the actual event. And yeah, people from all sides of the spectrum do this. Left, right—it’s less about politics than it is about instant impact. They post first, verify never, and let the reactions do the work. Sometimes, it even seems intentional, like: “Ah, people will figure it out later. For now, it spreads.”

What’s worse is how detached people have become from the consequences of their posts. I know some of them can feel, somewhere deep down, that this isn’t entirely right. But they silence it. They don’t consider the faces behind the clicks. They don’t let it land emotionally. The abstract “audience” becomes just numbers, statistics, likes. And some people—well, they know it’s false but they like or share anyway because it fits the story they already believe. It’s pragmatic, in a cold sense, and yeah, it’s infuriating.

I’ve done my own share of dishonesty, though it was never meant to harm anyone. Back then, I lied about small things about myself online, mostly to protect privacy, because the world is full of people who are curious in harmful ways—racist, predatory, or just invasive. I’d fudge details of where I was from or what I looked like. Now, I don’t do that anymore. I’m open. I share who I am, but still... the abuse doesn’t stop. I’ve had people throw racial slurs “gook” at me even when I’m just existing publicly online. That juxtaposition is sharp: honesty isn’t rewarded, and yet dishonesty aimed at harm often is.

So yeah, I’ve stopped reposting. I stopped amplifying other people’s content because I’ve seen the same thoughtless or even malicious behavior across every corner. Left, right—it doesn’t matter. They operate under the same assumptions: post fast, let the crowd decide, ignore context, edit until it fits, and repeat. It’s like they all have this silent agreement: the more you can manipulate without being caught immediately, the better. The rest? Well, that’s someone else’s problem, and usually, someone else will amplify the lie before the truth has a chance.

And this makes you think about history, right? If today, with cameras, metadata, and global attention, lies and distortions can circulate so easily, what about hundreds of years ago? Back then, records were scarce, slower, and controlled by whoever held power. Truth was already fragile; context even more so. I think about that sometimes, and it’s unsettling. It feels like, in many ways, our access to information has outpaced our ability to trust it. The mechanisms for truth exist, but humans—the ones running, sharing, and amplifying the messages—don’t always care. And it’s often easier to ignore the discomfort than to challenge it.

I can’t help but notice a difference in how people manage their guilt—or don’t. Those who post manipulative content often seem... calm. Detached. They don’t carry the same unease I did when I lied, even if it was just to protect myself. Back then, it felt uncomfortable, even heavy, because it involved my identity, my privacy, my own mistakes. Now, watching content designed to mislead, people are seemingly fine with it. Maybe they’ve learned to compartmentalize, or maybe they’ve convinced themselves it’s necessary. Either way, they’ve turned off the part of themselves that would care if someone got hurt.

And honestly, it’s exhausting to witness. To scroll and see this system operating on autopilot, where ethical hesitation is a liability and indifference is rewarded. I feel frustrated, yeah, but also cautious. That’s why I’ve become selective—not just about what I post, but about how I engage at all. I can’t control the flood, but I can choose not to be a part of it. Not because I expect the world to change, but because I want to maintain a thread of integrity, however small, in the chaos.

It’s tempting sometimes to throw up your hands. Mmm, maybe it’s all pointless. But I know that giving in entirely—to apathy, cynicism, or just the desire to join the noise—feels worse than staying quiet. Choosing when and how to act, even in small ways, is a way to preserve something human in a space that often strips humanity away.