I knew TikTok existed, but I didn't fully understand what it was until a few months ago. I also realized that something radical, yet largely invisible, is happening on the internet - with implications we still don't understand.
When I was growing up, I took it for granted that the people who became famous enough to be listened to by a crowd had worked hard for that accolade and generally operated with the support of an institution or an established industry.
The idea that I, as a teenager in my bedroom, might suddenly communicate with 100,000 people or more, would have seemed bizarre.
Today's kids no longer see life in these hierarchical and institutional terms. Yes, their physical worlds are often constrained by parental controls, a lack of access to the outdoors and insane over-scheduling.
But despite that (or, more accurately, in reaction to that), they see the internet as a constantly evolving frontier, where it is still possible for a bold and lucky pioneer to grab some land or find a voice. Most voices on the internet never travel beyond a relatively small network, and much of the content that goes viral on platforms such as TikTok, YouTube or Instagram does so because of unseen institutions at work (for example, a public relations team aiming to boost a celebrity's profile).
Fame can suddenly appear - and then just as suddenly be taken away again, because the audience gets bored, the platform's algorithms change or the cultural trend that a breakout video has tapped into goes out of fashion.
For a teenager, social media can seem like a summer garden at dusk filled with fireflies: spots of lights suddenly flare up and then die down, moving in an unpredictable, capricious display.
Is this a bad thing? We will not know for several years.
Financial Times. 5 February 2020. Adaptado.
No texto, a referência a um jardim de verão ao entardecer, repleto de vagalumes, sugere que, para os adolescentes, as mídias sociais
