I don't know who you are.
I have six different social apps on my phone and every once in awhile I'll decide to delete one of the other only to find myself downloading it again weeks later. The problem is that each time I delete the app it erases my chat history and I can no longer remember who is who or where the conversation started or stopped—like waking up after a drunken night realizing you must have blacked out because who even knows what happened.
"Lost all my chats" then becomes the standard user profile for everyone; no longer do we detail our lives or what we're looking for—it's enough to admit there exists no bonds between us any longer. We must start again because we ritualistically create and destroy them at once.
This socially-anxious gesture also puts the impetus for reconnection on the Other and excuses ourselves from initiating action.
A similar process occurs on those rare occasions where city-folk and suburbanites alike step back into the untamed forests and hinterlands that have become so removed from daily life (if not completely destroyed altogether).
You're standing there, alone, amongst the leaves and trees wondering: "Are they speaking to me? Can they hear me?" But you take a few deep breaths of its fresh air and continue walking until you're back in the city's grasp and forget all about it.
What has been lost in more than 10,000 years of civilization is a continuing dialogue—a relationship—between us and the parts of the world that would grow wild and free without our intervention. But the Earth can't read our digital profiles and it can't understand that we've simply lost our chat history with it—oh, if only it would spark up a conversation with us!
We will have to be brave enough to hear its pleas for reconnection and we'll have to be the one that sends the message first.