The ability to reconnect with people whom I haven't seen, or frankly thought of, throughout a large part of my life, has become less novel. In novelty's absence arose persistent attraction. For the younger folks, it will never be fresh; it originates as the mundane. Those of my ilk marvel at, “Jeez, how did 30 years go by since I last saw this person?”, and the youngers say, “30 years? WTF?! I can't even imagine.”
The compiled years are not an insurmountable abyss across which one leaps. They are just the period that passes without really noticing. We travel within a small envelope, a week or two into the past, and a few days or weeks into the future, and with us we carry those with which we interact during that time frame. Everything else is just passing sets — both stage and mathematical — and everyone else are entries on the 'Guest Stars' list. We weave our own fabric at our own loom, our threads occasionally intersecting.
Social sites expose the threads, showing us snippets of other designs, through windows of which we imagine we can see the true colors, where we think we can remember the tastes and sounds, yet knowing we are observers watching the show. Allowed to vote or comment, for sure, we needst turn away and again pump the foot pedal, until the realization of isolation is too much to ignore, and again we gaze. Once blind, the gift of sight lures us. We can live without it, as we had always done, but it's just too convenient…too present…to care to try to do so. The upside of annoying non-productive familiarity beats the freedom of isolation.