When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
I stumbled on this poem by Emily Dickinson, which seems to be about how anonymity is preferable to being famous. I also think it seems fitting as criticizing the ways of trying to be Somebody, constraining your identity (crafting and curating your online identity) and publicly announcing it (#croaking-like-a-frog), and maybe we can just try being Nobody.
I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? Then there’s a pair of us!