But lately, it feels so small.
You can fit a lot of snark into 140 characters. But you can't fit a life.
I want to be seen. I want to be known. I want to be understand. And everything in my life can only be understood in the context of everything else in my life.
It's so tempting. It's so tempting to just get on twitter in the middle of the afternoon and say "Oh hello world, I'm so witty, look at meeeeeeeee!" And when it works it is so reinforcing. Which makes it so hard to stop.
But I'm not saying what I need to say. I'm simplifying things I should be expanding. And I'm waiting like an eager, well trained puppy for someone to hand me something I'm supposed to be looking for myself.
And more and more instead of the thrill, I'm feeling a twitter let down. "Why did no one answer that tweet? It was brilliant! Why does no one know I'm sitting here waiting for an entry into conversation? Why does no one understand what I'm really trying to say?"
And more and more I feel like Prufrock.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
...
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I know that twitter is a tool. I just don't think I'm using it right.
