This is going to turn back into a more than poetry blog. I forgot that it was therapeutic to release my thoughts here.
I deleted my Twitter app today. Not my account. Just the app. I was suddenly hit with and disgusted by the facade.
Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy Twitter. I’m off and on it and this during this last round (which was longer than most), I connected with many other poets. It was fun to bounce of the minds of others and be critiqued on my work.
But, much like most else, it’s not real.
I’ve realized that I go there in my low points. When I’m depressed and I want to distract myself. The thing that most love about Twitter is its anonymity. You can be whatever, say whatever, call yourself whatever. There’s so much PORN! It got to a point, where just about everyday, I ended up on the page of a new follower and immediately was like, woops!
There are great people there. There are a few folks I even consider friends. To what extent, though? I was talking with one of these friends. He had tweeted awhile back about having a Twitter party so we could all meet each other. I remember telling him that we should really do it. I brought it back up to him today. Really, I just wanted him to know that it would be cool to meet him. We’d become friends. He’d gotten me to open up. He said something very noncommittal and I was suddenly over it all. Not over him… He’s a good person, which just makes me more sad.
I’ve become friend, therapist, and inspiration to people. Even an instigator. At the end of the day, it doesn’t mean anything does it? So, why do we spend so much time on an app that ultimately gives us nothing? It’s a forum to let out the things we wouldn’t share on Facebook or in suitable, adult conversation. It’s where we can be more us. It’s where we can let our degenerate out. It’s the place where we know we’re all a little fucked up and it’s ok.
I can’t live there anymore.
I’ve been hurting. Deeply. Was it another asshat I went out with? Of course! You guys know that I love and I love hard. It hurts to lose a love interest, a friend, anyone really… Told myself I wouldn’t fall apart, but I did. At least, though, I told this one about himself. Why shouldn’t he know, even though he went back to his ex? Why shouldn’t he know that I saw what he would do before he did because I understood his feelings when he didn’t? Why shouldn’t he know that, for once, I thought someone chose me first, and it turned out, in the end… that he was never fully present, that he was always going to go back, whether it was me or some other girl? I just wish it was some other girl… Why should I carry the burden alone. He should know what he did. People need to understand the impact they have, the damage they do, whether they stick around for awhile or breeze in and out of your life like a gust of wind.
So, it’s probably time to stop wallowing. Get back to me. To reality. To life. To stop taking solace in an imaginary world full of real people I can’t ever know.