I want to delete my twitter account.
Two days ago I went through the steps of deleting everything but the tweets and content of the past year, but my finger hovered too long over the accept button and the moment was lost. Something made me think of all the history of the past four years, slivers of myself I probably can’t be bothered to seek out but remain there still, indelible for now. I lost my nerve.
Two weeks ago I suspended the account and this lasted seven days, or just over. You get a month to decide if you want to stay deleted, but can sign in again at any time, and everything will be back to normal. And I lasted a week.
When I came back I found I still didn’t want to communicate with people. I thought with time the feeling would shift again. Usually a few hours to recalibrate and you cringe at your overreaction.
Still waiting for the cringe.
Still waiting for it to feel normal again.
It should feel normal by now. Why doesn’t it feel normal?
I still wrote. I still write. The word vomit has to go somewhere.
When you go, do you signal it, or slip away into the night?
It feels polite to say that you are leaving but you’re happy, you’re fine, in case there are people who might worry or wonder after you. It also feels like showing off, fishing for admirers to fall on you and beg you to stay.
You don’t want to be asked to stay.
You don’t want to be asked to reconsider. You want to let go of the ties, rather than sever them. Watch the friendships float away peacefully like so many helium-filled balloons.
Maybe this persona has run its course.