Kill The Bird.

Years from now, i will look back at this post and wonder what the hell i was thinking. What the hell made me do it.  What the hell made me delete my twitter account?

It is a rhetorical question. The answer lies in the question itself. What the hell was i doing on twitter in the first place? A question for an answer, there you go. It was but a phase. A game. We all play it.  140 words to kill. Go. Fit a joke or bitch about your luxuriously boring life or come up with a witty line over a  local issue or football or whatever. Time starts now.  Used to be i waited for days just to come up with a pithy or witty line to share with my almost none-existent followers. And this is in the day where information flows faster than thought. 

I got bored of the game. It bored me because i became dependent on it. I stopped writing long rambling stuff as i slowly became addicted to the speed of the replies the likes and what-have you. I was addicted to it, like nicotine, like sugar, like whatever the hell floats your boat in a shitty day.

One can only maintain a number of addictions at any given time and so ruthlessly i nipped the addiction in the bud, long before it becomes cancerous. I knew that to be published, to be remembered i had to write at least 10,000 words a day and 10,000 attempts at a tweet does not count as writing. Twitter is cancerous to my writing muscle, at least it was for me.

Do i miss it now? i certainly did, like i will miss nicotine when i finally gave up my pipe or like i will miss sugary stuff when i finally go on a diet. Relapse? God help me, i hope not.

Sometimes a line a word which i think to be brilliant my first reaction would be to say to myself; that is tweet-worthy or , i should tweet that. But then i would catch myself midstream and to remind myself that my twitter account is dead and give the silly blue bird the finger.

I would then type it instead in my battered old Samsung S3 whose S Notes notes have the tendency to go missing even after i saved it a few time after which i would go berserk and after a few minutes, resign to the fact that brilliant line or word is now lost eternally to the Void .

Now, after the death of the bluebird, i find my days to be longer and more meaningful. Conversations, i mean good old fashioned conversations became an enjoyment for me albeit my introverted disposition. The lines? the witty and pithy lines? Now, i reserve them  for good old fashioned conversations with friends.

Death of the bluebird is a relief for me. Its like taking a long satisfying dump after holding it in for hours. Go on. Try it now. Kill your Twitter. It will liberate you.