When I sit down to say something in a blank space with unlimited potential, I feel overwhelmed. What should be relaxing becomes enraging because I don’t know when I can stop talking. I keep finding more to add, more to change, more to say, just more of everything.
But I’m not a long-form writer. I can’t read long-form writing. Books are hard for me. I don’t keep a diary even though I want to. Twitter is both the ruin of the attention span and the future of it. When I have a space so small, I can reduce myself to my core ideas. That’s more powerful (at least for me) than you might think. Maybe it makes me feel like I can show off by spouting off witticisms as I’m wont to do; though part of it is that genuine desire to reach the point in myself where I can say exactly what I mean, to the point, without making things longer than they need to be. I can talk more often about more things, and as someone who tends to whine about first-world problems, it’s liberating.
I know, I’m years too late. I still won’t join, but I get why people do.
(I’ll just go back under my rock now)