People often say the Internet is not what it used to be. That it lost its original spirit and is now dominated by platforms designed to capture our attention and accelerate consumption. There is some truth in that, but the picture feels incomplete, almost written from a nostalgic place, sometimes even a capricious one. The Internet was never stable or uniform. It has always been in flux, reshaped by the ways we use it. And within that constant change, two realities coexist: on one side, overload and saturation, on the other, the very real possibility of creating community.

I saw this through door.link. When I uploaded the first mix, there was no plan behind it, no strategy to build an audience, no thought of turning it into a long term project. It was simply about sharing music. Over time, though, it became a place people returned to, an unexpected reference point. Not because an algorithm told them to, but because they found something there worth coming back to.

What struck me was never the number of people passing through, but the persistence of those who stayed. Over the years I have received messages from listeners telling me how a mix kept them company on a trip, during a move, or even through grief. Others wrote simply to say thank you, sometimes after months of silence. Occasionally packages arrived at my home with records, books, or small independent publications sent from different countries. None of it was planned or prompted. It was spontaneous, and it gave the project its weight.

That is when I realized something we often overlook: digital community is not built only on the intensity of interaction, but on the possibility of return. It matters less how often someone shows up, and more that there is a place everyone knows they can come back to. That intermittent continuity, that quiet insistence, is what makes community possible in a digital present that moves fast, feels hectic, and leaves little space for imagination.

And door.link is not the only example. Over the years I have come across other spaces that work in the same way: forums still alive after decades, newsletters that keep a steady correspondence with their readers, personal blogs that update slowly but never disappear. What ties them together is a simple truth: community is sustained not by scale or visibility, but by memory and trust built over time.

To say the Internet is dead is a shallow reading, one that only considers the loudest parts of the network. It is to mistake the constant rush of dominant social platforms for the whole picture. Times change. We change. The Internet changes. It matters to recognize that beyond the surface frenzy, the network endures. I mean, It has changed over the last thirty years and will keep changing over the next thirty, but within that ongoing transformation it holds onto something essential: the ability to sustain lasting bonds. Wherever someone returns, writes, listens, shares, or gives thanks, community continues. That persistence is proof that the Internet, far from exhausted, still carries its vital force.