I’m falling, endlessly. Blackness surrounds me as the wind rushes into my face and my stomach churns. I can’t remember how I got here, or why I came in the first place. All I know is that I’m falling, and I can’t see what’s beneath me. Despite the terror that I feel spreading over my body, my mind is at peace and, oddly enough, I am not worried about what awaits me at the bottom of my descent. That’s when it happens. The silence is broken by a shrill, piercing sound. The world around me shatters and dissolves into reality. I sit up in my bed, gasping for breath, my heart racing as my senses slowly make the transition from sleep to consciousness. I scan my surroundings a few times as if to convince myself that I’m in my room, that it was only just a dream, that this is what’s real. Once I get my bearings I check the time.  It’s 6:02am, and the clock is ticking. I now have 58 minutes of privacy before my monitor turns on.
“Come on, Valerie,” I mumble to myself as I spring out of my bed and onto my feet, fumbling in the darkness of my room. I hop into the shower immediately, lamenting over the two minutes that I had wasted while I was sitting in bed. If there is a time to be exposed, vulnerable, or in an otherwise compromising position, it’s during The Private Hour, and I had just lost two minutes. It may not sound like a lot, but when everything you do is transmitted to a live feed, where anyone and everyone can see what you’re doing at any time, you treasure the few moments that you have to yourself. By the time I’m showered and dressed, it’s 6:40am, and I still have 20 minutes left.  I breathe a sigh of relief, “whew,” I think to myself, “at least now no one will see me naked.”  I realize what a trivial worry that is, considering that every aspect of my life is broadcasted into the public eye. But I cling to the illusion of privacy, for the sake of sanity.
My alarm sounds again, signaling the end of The Private Hour. It's 7am, and I hear a faint ringing in my ear, meaning that my monitor is now on. From this point forward everything I do, see, or hear, could potentially be seen by anyone who logs onto the reality sharing system, otherwise known as RSS. All they would have to do is enter my name and zip code and voila! Instant access to a first-hand view of my life. Being forced to share every aspect of my existence with friends, family, and even complete strangers, was just something I had always accepted. Everyone is forced to share their lives on the live feed and, even though the exact reasoning behind it is unknown, I had always just assumed that it was for the purpose of full transparency. When people know they're being watched they're forced to be the best versions of themselves, and who wouldn't want that? Politicians can no longer lie to the masses, spouses can no longer have secret affairs, and everything is out in the open. Well, almost everything. Whatever you choose to do from 6:00am to 7:00am, otherwise known as The Private Hour, is your own business. I don’t know how other people use this time, but I have always used it to shower and clothe myself. My bare body is the only secret I have. I mean, really, who wants to shower if they know that a bunch of creeps could be watching them?
But, despite my awareness of it in everything I do, I personally have never logged onto the RSS for two reasons, the first being that I don’t want anyone to know that I’m watching them. Think about it, what if they were watching me watch them? The idea made me uncomfortable. The second reason was because I didn’t necessarily like that people could be watching me constantly. I don’t want them violating my privacy, so why should I violate theirs? Regardless, I try to keep my life as simple and as boring as possible, in the hopes that people will think there’s nothing to see and, thus, not watch my feed. I avoid mirrors at all costs, because I don’t want to seem vain or show my face on the RSS. I only eat healthy foods and I run a mile each morning, so that people won’t think that I’m lazy. I never gossip or speak poorly of anyone, because there is no way that they wouldn’t find out. But, most importantly, I always work hard and study hard, because I don’t want anyone to think that I’m stupid.
Even though I’ve accepted the fact that the RSS is just an unchangeable part of life, I’ve been having doubts lately. A few days ago, one of my friends said something about the monitors that I haven’t been able to shake from my thoughts. We were doing classwork together. Well, at least I was. It was almost midnight, and I was scrambling to finish my term paper, silently kicking myself for procrastinating so much. Suddenly she turned to me and said, “Hey, you know that alleged Albert Einstein quote? The one that says something about our technology surpassing our humanity?” She asked. I rolled my eyes, “here we go,” I thought to myself as I answered her halfheartedly, “Yeah, I guess so.” I looked up at her and waited to hear what kind of philosophical bullshit she was going to say next, hoping it was quick so that I could get back to my work. That’s when I realized that she had been on the RSS this whole time instead of working on her term paper. Before I could reprimand her, she quickly blurted out, in one, drawn-out breath, “Ok, so do you ever think about how weird it is that we care so much about other people’s lives? And not just that, but that we care even more about what other people think of our lives?”
She had a tremendous grin on her face now, as if she had just said the most intelligent, revolutionary thing in the world. Of course I thought about it, didn’t everyone? I mean, in a way, we were all kind of the unwilling stars of our own reality TV shows. She looked at me intently, waiting for a response.
“Ok, so?” I said, loosing interest. I needed to finish my assignment, and here she was wasting my time, stating the obvious.
“Ok, well,” she continued, “you act different when your monitor is on, right? Like compared to what you do during The Private Hour? You know you’re being watched, so you kind of put on a show, so to speak. I’ve watched your feed; you do this whole boring, goody-goody-two-shoes act. That’s how you want people to think you are. But, even you let your guard down sometimes. And, when you do, you’re completely different.”
I was frustrated now, and slightly insulted. What was she trying to get at, here? “What’s your point?” I snapped,  “The RSS makes me act like a better person, so what if I study a little harder or run a little faster? It makes me more honest, I--”
“No, no, no, you’re wrong,” she interjected, “you do those things because you’re being watched, you wouldn’t normally do them if you weren’t. The RSS doesn’t make you a better person, it makes you a different person.”
I sat back in my chair, I had never really thought about it that way. I had always believed that I was projecting a better version of myself, not a different one. “You’re ridiculous,” I said, not wanting to encourage her. “Stop procrastinating and do your work.”
Even though I had brushed her off, I knew that she was right. Now, every time I did anything I thought to myself “would I be doing this if I wasn’t being watched?” Her words kept echoing in the back of my mind, driving me inane. I felt the weight of a thousand eyes on my shoulders. Everywhere I went I felt as though I was in a fishbowl or on a stage, as though my life was just something for other people to observe. Even when I was by myself, I wasn’t alone. Everything I’ve done or said up until this point was all for the purpose of building my public image; it was all part of a façade. But, what bothered me even more than all of that was the fact that I cared so much. Why did being watched make me change my behavior? Why couldn’t I just be myself and ignore anyone who didn’t like the way I acted?
I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. Where would I go? I’d disappear, and then what? Someone would turn on my feed and instantly know where I was and what I was doing; there was no escaping it. I wanted to shake the routine I had fallen into, to start being myself, but how? How can you be yourself if you know your every move is being scrutinized? What does “being yourself” even mean? My thoughts became more and more consumed by the thought of the monitors, and I was unraveling more and more each day. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t hide, I was trapped indefinitely.
One night, after days of self-inflicted mental torment, my exhausted, depleted mind came up with a solution. I sat in my room and waited for the thick blanket of night to encase my city. Then I slipped out my front door and started the 10-minute walk downtown. I crammed my hands into my jacket pocket and tried to fight off the chill of the cold air. Despite my best efforts to hold back tears, I began to cry uncontrollably, I didn’t know why, but it felt good. I wondered how many people, if any, were watching me. Did they know what I was doing? Would they try to stop me?
Finally, after the longest 10-minute walk of my life, I had arrived downtown. I stood there, on the sidewalk, and took in my surroundings. I picked out the tallest building in my line of vision, and approached it. It was an apartment complex, and I couldn’t get in with out a key. “S***,” I thought to myself, “I really didn’t think this all the way through.” I wondered how much time I had left before someone realized what I was doing and came out to get me… probably not long. Defeated, I slumped down next to the door and buried my head into my hands. Panic began to set in. What am I going to do if this doesn’t go to plan? Everyone will know what I tried to do… I will be ruined. I cannot and will not turn back now. Just as a fresh wave of tears was about to wash over me, the door opened. A man in a trench coat emerged and held the it open for me, with a smile. “Oh, thank you,” I said, “I had the longest day and I locked myself out. You just saved me.”
“Well, timing is everything, isn’t it?” he replied. I took my chance and slipped through the door. I wiped the residual tears off my face as I entered the elevator and pressed the roof button. The elevator ride felt even longer than the walk I had just made, I thought it would never end, but I finally made it to the top floor. I exited the elevator and opened the door in front of me, feeling the sting of the cold air as it hit my face. Without hesitation I stepped onto the ledge. Then, before taking the final step, I stopped and asked myself, “Maybe I should say something to the monitor? A couple last words?” But I decided that doing so wouldn’t be genuine, but instead would be just another way of projecting a false image of myself. I took a deep breath, and stepped over the ledge. The next thing I know, I’m falling, endlessly. Blackness surrounds me as the wind rushes into my face and my stomach churns. I can’t see what’s beneath me. Despite the terror that I feel spreading over my body, my mind is at peace and, oddly enough, I am not worried about what awaits me at the bottom of my descent.