You know all too well that the others are hell.

The others, they can be cruel, but for you they are hell because you cannot escape them: two hundred and twenty million people stare at you without ever having seen you.

Too many to leave the digital space – there will always be an image of you there.

There is only one thing you can do: try to determine this image yourself.

Caroline O Jebens

Editor in the society department at FAZ.NET.

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So, four thousand pictures, and that's you: you in the Rolls Royce, you in front of the Rolls Royce, you with a gray Birkin bag, you on a Louis Vuitton suitcase, you write "Material Girl".

You like being rich, even those who don't know you know that because you were born into a family that would later become famous as the matriarch clan.

New money, and your sisters know how to increase it: if you make a name for yourself, you can sell anything.

The relationship with your family is not easy.

Your mother once decided that you should live in this hell when she let the cameras in the house.

Fourteen years your life flickered through millions of strangers' screens - your wedding, your marriage, your divorce, how you fell in love, were cheated on, had a child.

But what does that mean?

They were used to it.

And anyway: If you had shown your 24-year-old self what the little camera in your hand would mean today - would you have believed it?

When I see you today, I hardly recognize you.

You used to have long, red locks, the only one among your brunette sisters.

But the red has long since faded, like so many who live where they live, in the concrete villas on the Pacific.

Anyone who wears their hair so dry must always blow-dry it into shape, large waves or slick, the main thing is that it is elaborate, so you find it beautiful.

Dedicate a photo to each hairstyle.

So now you're the blonde among your sisters, but you've always been unique.

The two sisters you share your father with are eight inches shorter than you.

That was a joke that was told in your family: maybe your father is not your father.

Maybe it's his client, who looks so much like you, an athlete, maybe a murderer.

They didn't seem to care about the chatter: their father was the lawyer who defended the friend in court.

Your father bore the name that made your sister famous.

Yes, your sister, it was her who wanted to be famous and desired, not you.

While she struggled to get invited to the right shows, you had to work shifts in the small boutiques that her family then made a living from.

But today it's different: Today you sell your own clothes, the jeans, sweaters and bikinis are called "Good American", because that's what you are, isn't it?

A good, good American woman - not only your sister, you too have worked hard for your wealth.

Don't forget that.

And yet your mother names you last in the list of her daughters' labels.

What they don't make you forget is that you are different.

The fact that you are the “fat”, the “ugly” sister (“You must have another father!”) was thrown at you for a long time, as you recently wrote in one of the four thousand tiles.

You asked that it be understood why you wanted an image removed that someone had uploaded against your will.

You're wearing a bikini by the pool, with no filters, no retouching.

You didn't like that.

You are very handsome, but it will always be difficult for you to tell.

Too many looks are on you, evaluate without ceasing.

You once said that you didn't know there was something wrong with your forms.

It was only with the cameras that the warning voices came into your life, the voices became many and loud, and at some point you gave up: your body has stiffened into muscles today, you show it proudly, sell tea and vitamins with it.

The women with the wrong shapes are different now.

And yet it doesn't seem to be enough.

The platinum blond hair, the steely body in front of expensive bodywork, you always have to be illuminated.

Looking at you, staring back through bright contact lenses, your face overlaid with make-up and filters, your nose carved into place, your lips puffy - but it's the light that's so alienating.

As if there was always an illuminator hanging over you, smoothing out everything that might seem odd with 1000 watts.

So you look the same in every picture.

Freshly tanned but never recovered.

Is that you now?

Is that the real you because you made it that way?

Or do you just know that there is no way back and no way out?

Is this your self that surrendered?

A human often appears in your pictures, with you or alone.

It's your daughter, she will be four in April and looks happy.

They called you True.