You were removed. The account, the archive, the readers you spent years gathering — gone. And somewhere a line in the Terms says it was always allowed.
This page is where that does not vanish quietly.
If a platform erased you, write it here: what happened, when, what they told you — or didn’t. Leave a link to your own account of it, if you’ve written one. Read what others went through. Answer them.
This is not a support group. No one here will promise you it turns out fine. It is a record — that it happened, to more than one of us, the same way.
Comments are read before they appear. Say what you need to say.
Why this keeps happening — taken apart line by line here: Reading Substack.
Subscribe so the rest doesn’t happen in silence: lintara.online/newsletter
Well I wanna cry but I must before said, unsad my try as a lie,
why?
To create potential and potent words of fake critique, kind of like review but unkind, find all words set unthought into unthinkable, even friend in humor must, as specially they fit into especially kind, and kind means to hurt in and where it does not pain or such will ever find, timed, mimed as mined, typo the first, added the second, none of which until now, has a stop of my writing found, on phone, alone, at home, in rhyme I steal time, a crime of lovely work, for every now of you and all friend, shall find friends before ends into morrow more then never is, never was me or a mine as now found, in a soon, very soon time never borrowed, to live for tomorrow means, paying in life by death borrowed, to pay a never that not – not even keeps what we once followed, time is crime and none, before it we must be and be gone into love while we feel one, until again and a gain means same as me asamed or asamend gained friend, to be kicked to be gone, all it means – I wrote in this and as one – a badge for the bold, a bare truth hot and barely truly hold, into wrong as a song it is not, not so wrong, before it hit, but long after it could add edit, it was wrong but long gone, truth leads, lies into none, there truth lies – it is one – means at least – for us if for all – same as none.
You tried to lie and couldn’t — and that refusal is the whole answer. Glad you’re here. — Lintara
You tried to lie and couldn’t — and that refusal is the whole answer. Truth leads; the lie leads nowhere. You already know it; you wrote it yourself. Glad you’re here, on the far side of the ban with me.
I’ve not had time to get through all of the pre / post ban Substack stuff but am chewing through it a bit at a time.
Your willingness to document the processes prior to in more or less realtime as the the events unfolded wasn’t the part of your Substack that I was reading, it was all the structure / journey stuff that wasn’t just resonating but was also constantly checking the “not the only one” checkbox that I hadn’t noted, so when the ban hit I had zero clue what happened, although in digging through I was getting (via email notifications) but didn’t catch the lags you were noting at the time but I hadn’t seen. Wasn’t until now in moving all those to a single mailbox that I saw the decrease in notifications comparing against your reconstructed stack here. Many of those writings I never got a notification for. Subconsciously I was aware of them to some extent as I’d begun manually navigating to the page directly. Still assimilating..
I just got word that Om Malik passed, which is is a big loss. Dunno if you’ve read any of his stuff but he’s been commenting from a bigger perspective about what we’re seeing and experiencing as “new” only to relay that it’s been in place for far longer than we recognize.
https://om.co/2026/05/25/we-are-living-in-pinocchios-world/
Cheers.
Mark
What you did — pulling all of it into one mailbox and watching the notification count fall against the reconstructed archive — is the cleanest proof of the thing I kept naming and couldn’t make visible: the writing went out, the delivery didn’t. You felt it before you could see it, which is why you’d started navigating to the page by hand. That instinct was reading something real.
And thank you for telling me about Om Malik — I didn’t know his work, and I’ll make a point of reading him now. From what you say and what little I’ve since seen, he spent his last writing on how power hides inside the words we’re handed, which is the whole job. A real loss to lose that voice. I’ll start with the Pinocchio piece. Cheers, Mark.