20230709

Earlier this year I paid for a web app to delete 14 years worth of my tweets. It wasn't a political act; it wasn't a protest at the new ownership, nor was it out of fear that some past-life profanity would come back to bite me. It was the realisation that, at 28, I had now posted thoughts on a platform for roughly half my time on earth and that there was nothing I realistically had to show for it.

My tweets weren't bad - they were no better or worse than anyone else's. But the existence of 11,000 of them was unsettling. Karl Ove Knausgaard said that he burned all of his journals from before the age of 25 because he felt no connection to the person he used to be. While I wouldn't go so far as to say that, it's comforting to think that there is something universally sordid about having your formative years documented.

This is an excuse to start something new and have a more active voice on the things which I enjoy and find interesting. Since leaving London in a hurry in 2019 I've increasingly spent my spare time outdoors and I think there is at least something small that's still left unsaid about the wonderful activity of walking - so I'll start there, and see how we go.