The (online) death of me.

October 29, 2012. I deactivated my Twitter account.

AttyMico. Non-existent.

It was a purely personal reason, which some people might have imagined as selfish. I can’t blame them completely. Of course, the right to remove one’s account is entirely dependent on the account holder’s choice. But when lives have interacted and stories have been shared, it seems that other people get emotional attachment, even if interaction has been limited to the virtual world.

I made messages to people who mattered to me. Some, with crappy sentimental stuff akin to the ones that were posted on high school graduation booklets. Others are more melodramatic, occasionally bordering on nostalgia and with a tinge of regret. While majority are optimistic, bent on the possibility of meeting one day and half-remembering the reason for the moment of insanity. Of course, I would no longer know the reply, if there will be one. It’s one of those things that I have to carry on with me for the choice, haphazard or not, that I made.

Some were cautious enough to save my email address, and started asking the reason for my online demise. It was, of course, not a spur-of-the-moment decision, but it’s also not a predicated move. I have discussed it with my other self, and realized based on the gravity of circumstances that this would be the best recourse at the moment. (Note: I am not dying nor am I transferring to some foreign country wherein Twitter is not allowed.)

I have deactivated my account once when I was overwhelmed by the online reaction I got. In my books, reaction is different from the number of followers one has. Contrary to what others believe, I am still a private person. I might be the usual person you see inside a coffee shop reading the latest Batman comics or one of the Classics. When I am at my best, I attempt to be part of some sporadic social or political events, mostly attributable to the prodding of some “friends.” Most of the time, however, I bury myself at the comfort of my home tucked under the sheets. Now, I permanently deactivated my account notwithstanding the hidden messages from online crushes, “Favorites” of some people I admire, and casual conversations with fellow comrades.

I always believe that there is a reason for everything. Some are apparent, but for most things, the reasons are partly hidden. In the middle of this confusion, I have to tuck memories--all the good memories. At the end of the day, memories are all that I have, and all that I shall carry on as I attempt to move forward.