I was really enamored with craigslist around when I was in college. By no means did it exist outside of capitalism, but it was a remarkably different way of engaging with commodities. The objects you got had a history like any secondhand object, but you'd get it from someone involved in that history and not a thrift store middleman. I purchased a book of vintage knitted hat patterns from a woman once and she took the time to show me some things she'd made with it. It was less alienating experience than shopping at a store, online or not. Even just scrolling on craigslist (which I did maybe too much in my spare time) felt personal. There was an artist Eric Oglander who made a compilation of the photos on mirrors listings. Some of them were cleverly pointed to reflect something pretty. But my favorites had little regard for the image, opting for basically an awkward, poorly lit mirror selfie. So much more interesting than Instagram.

When perusing this archive I found some ways to articulate what was so fascinating about the missed connections section in particular. The deep vulnerability that presents itself in the craigslist missed connections archive is not dissimilar from that of Yahoo! Answers; but while those are extremely personal questions, these are statements. Open admissions of longing. These posts feel both young and old: simultaneously shy, child-like crushes, and the melancholy sorrow of someone wisened by heartbreak.

I'm excluding from my selection the most explicit of the posts; you can go find those on your own if you're really curious.

Consider this Barthes quote from A Lover's Discourse:

"Now, absence can exist only as a consequence of the other: it is the other who leaves, it is I who remain. The other is in a condition of perpetual departure, of journeying; the other is, by vocation, migrant, fugitive; I--I who love, by converse vocation, am sedentary, motionless, at hand, in expectation, nailed to the spot, in suspense-- like a package in some forgotten corner of a railway station. Amorous absence functions in a single direction, expressed by the one who stays, never by the one who leaves: an always present I is constituted only by the confrontation with the always absent you. To speak this absence is from the start to propose that the subject's place and the other's place cannot permute; it is to say: 'I am loved less than I love'" (13)

It's amazing how still these craigslist posts are. The amorous subject, the poster, is sedentary from the moment they publish their appeal. And they stay sedentary in the archive, longing, longing, longing. These are snapshots of so many moments of absence.

Sometimes it is, presumeably, the absense of a long-term, or at least very close lover:

This is the most personal feeling, a love letter directed at "you." You, the amorous object; you, reader. My mind wanders to all the other moments these companions must have had, reading interesting things, whipped cream envelopment, beachside mind-wanderings. And that ending, it's just heartbreaking.

"there are two bridges between us, now, but it might as well be two hundred."

Absense is absense, I suppose.

There's the absense of the ephemeral encounter, too. After just a glimpse, a liminal meeting, there comes the regret of not saying anything. The other becomes absent, and you turn to the quintessential anonymous broadcasting platform. But is ephemerality the right word? Sure the encounter was lost to time (unless the other manages to miraculously find the post), but its story lingers on a bit longer like belly butterflies.

At least this one reads of excitement. The poster doesn't seem to be asking for anything, just saying thanks for a special moment. Posts like these are a point of relief in a sea of melancholy.

Then there's the ones directed at no one in particular. Just an announcement of feeling, of which we can see no response.
A rhetorical question, I assume. Less than compelling us to respond, to give a blunt answer about why, in fact, it is so hard to make friends, this posts asks us to relate. I wonder if there were responses, and if so what did they say. I would've said, "It's so difficult. I feel like I know more about people bearing their sweet souls on the internet than most people I know the identity of."

These last two are my favorite posts I've ever found.

For one thing they just read... strangely. Especially the second one. I have no idea if the order of those words were chosen intentionally, or if it was a consequence of varied familiarity with English. But it still reads so clearly, somehow. I just started typing out an analysis of it, my personal translation of the sentences, the meaning they evoke in me. But I realized it was taking some of the magic away from the original post. I ask you to read it intentionally. Consider each word, what it means both outside of the sentence and within. Associations you make. I've looked at this one over and over, and it never fails to make me smile and shake my head. I'm glad it's here catching my silly attention.

The first one reads differently from the others I've collected-- it's less a longing for a person and more a longing for relief. Seeing the functionally absent lover, them not seeing you (whether intentionally or not). Barthes writes:

There are two words: Pothos, desire for the absent being and Himéros, the more burning desire for the present being (15).

In context, I believe Mr. Barthes is talking more about the way that, even when with the lover, you can never achieve pure presence. They're, in some ways, always absent. But I'll utilize the word Himéros in our present context. The poster isn't waxing poetic about nostalgia and love; they're stating the pain of presently seeing the absent lover. Of seeing the present, absent lover.

The deadness of craigslist, missed connections in particular, is saturated with meaning. Ghosts posting about their ghosts. Calls into cyberspace, to which, if there even are any, we cannot see the responses. I include this dead media because I don't believe in discarding the remnants of love. I want to honor these feelings so boldly proclaimed to the world (albeit anonymously). After all, they were published for a reason.

Sources:

Barthes, Roland. A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments. Paperback edition, Hill and Wang, 2010.

Lingel, Jessica. An Internet for the People: The Politics and Promise of craigslist. Princeton University Press, 2020.

Screenshots by myself from craigslist missed connections, at various times.