Warning: extreme and annoying philosophy ahead, probably
I’m different on Twitter than I am on Facebook.
Less encouraging. Less positive. Fewer attempts to capture a perfectly timed moment of connection. (I think this is why I am rarely using Instagram too — I can’t curate what I can’t imagine.)
When I tweet, I’m angry, and truthful to the point of painfulness. I tweet what I think almost immediately after I have decided how to say it. I am outraged. I am quick in a way that I used to be on Facebook, and I think that’s why I’m tweeting almost daily but barely acknowledging that Facebook exists.
It’s not strange to me that I employ a different facet of Self depending on where I am showing up or what space I am occupying. The facet of me that tweets and retweets and quote retweets feels like the most authentic Self at the moment. I’d say that the freedom to tweet whatever I want to was aspirational, but I am already doing it, so it isn’t.
What I am aspiring to is a habit of writing into the void, not just in my hardcover, lined, daily (mostly) journal. I used to write three full pages a day in it, and that has shrunk to about half a page, handwritten. That’s not even long enough for my hand to start aching.
I want to write but I also want to be noticed, and I don’t think it’s possible for me to have both of those things — or maybe, the expectation of both of those things. Expecting both things, craving both things, has led to me stifling my own words until they’re buried deeply enough that I can’t exactly find them. So this right here, this thing I am writing, is an attempt to Just Fucking Write Already. Here is an opportunity to express thoughts as if I’m wringing cold water from a wash cloth before applying it to my head. That is an extremely specific and obscure metaphor. If there’s one thing I am good at, it’s making strange connections between thoughts or ideas.
I hope that I can continue doing this. Writing in a way that is free(er) of expectation. Writing for the sake of becoming unstuck. Writing as a way of remembering that I actually have a lot to say about a lot of different things. Writing as a way to practice choosing my words carefully, while at the same time using as little filtering as possible. Writing as a way to prove to myself that I exist.
This is my current experience of Self: pain, depression, doing things because they’re mine to do, self-medicating with a few hours of video games every evening. I want to exist in a different experience, so I suppose I need to build it for myself.
I rate this piece three stars out of ten. Good effort, too meandering, far too self-absorbed, shaky philosophy.