I effectively disabled my Twitter account last night.

I’ve been thinking about it for months now, actually doing it. Over the weekend after watching my childhood friend get married, I just snapped inside, then preformed the task after returning to PA yesterday.

All of this is crap.

All of our safety blankets. Our little reassurances that people need us, want us, acknowledge us. They are things we talk ourselves into thinking are a means of connection, but they are not. We have panic attacks when our phones are misplaced, when calls go unanswered, when text messages and time lines on social networks are unable to be updated or returned.

Is this life? Is it you or me? Is it real?

Who cares.

Every time I see a phone attached to someone’s face a part of me screams inside because I feel that much more disconnected, I feel my ability to reach out, to want to reach out, dissipate.

Two and a half years of my thoughts were poured into Twitter. Pictures of people, of objects, of food, of accidents, of events, of roadkill, of pain. My life, my thoughts, my suffering, my tears, my love, my joy, my want, my loss, my hate: Me.

I find reality unreal most of the time. Maybe because I’m willing to sacrifice so much of it to pursue the unreasonable, while others are not.