For The Bird

I always suspected the eventual collapse of Twitter would hit me harder than most. Over the last fourteen years, ever since I first heard Stephen Fry extolling its virtues on Friday Night With Jonathan Ross, I’ve not only embraced microblogging as a medium but allowed Twitter to become so central to my life and outlook that I genuinely struggle to imagine a future without it. I’ve changed a lot since 2009, as has the world, but Twitter has been a valued constant.

I set up my first account in second year at university as a counterpoint to Facebook, which had only recently supplanted Bebo and MySpace. But while my friends could be easily exported from one platform to another, it became apparent that the Twittersphere wouldn’t be so easily replicated. Very few of my friends were on it, and there was no realistic way of keeping a running tally of the thousands of accounts I followed or guarantee that anyone following me might do so elsewhere. Luckily, Twitter endured, even as others didn’t.

I’d been attracted by the opportunities Twitter promised for personal and professional development. It represented a chance to define myself, to distill ideas into 140-character digests and record my thoughts, inspirations and opinions for posterity. I could make connections across different disciplines, continents and even levels of celebrity. There was a chance I might expand my reach, amplify my voice and grow my influence. Logging into Twitter each day felt as important as attending lectures or gaining work experience.

I quickly connected with journalists and started writing film reviews and feature articles for various websites, securing an internship and accreditation to film festivals and press screenings. Then, when my interests changed and I started a second profile curated to better reflect my passions for photography, travel and wildlife, I found a new community that followed me on my journeys, joined in weekly Twitter chats and agreed to met-ups in Glasgow and New York. It was a constant companion I could carry around in my pocket.

I got my news from Twitter, made friends through Twitter, shared things I found interesting on Twitter. Even as I habitually checked Instagram and Facebook, I spent the vast majority of my screen-time on Twitter. Where Meta’s offerings felt superficial and perfunctory, one full of filtered influencers and the other loaded with friends I’d largely fallen out of touch with, Twitter continued to feel vital, engaging and useful—whether chasing refunds, crowdsourcing information or scouting birding locations, the potential was limitless.

Not that my relationship with it was always productive, or even particularly healthy. I’m as guilty of mindlessly scrolling and fretting over metrics as anyone, but while all social media platforms invite procrastination and encourage compulsive tendencies, Twitter does much more besides. Every flick through my feed exposed me to new books, movies and music, introduced me to new writers, travellers and academics, alerted me to competitions, events and job opportunities. It’s been a window, a doorway, a prism through which to view the wider Internet.

It’s perhaps because I’ve never had a tweet go viral or attracted any real attention that I still have such a positive perception of it. Many people are ambivalent about Twitter, treating it as a work obligation or marketing tool, while almost as many have long since soured on the experience altogether—some years before Elon Musk slid unsolicited into their DMs. For me, Twitter has always been a warm, welcoming and rewarding environment, largely untroubled by trolls or their vitriol, where I could still share my love of soup, seals and Switzerland. The blue bird remained a reassuring sight, Jack Dorsey a benevolent spectre.

Over time, I’ve seen Twitter come together to celebrate Eurovision and the Olympics, I’ve seen it rally to offer support and sanctuary to victims of natural disasters and terrorist attacks, I’ve seen it mourn the deaths of idols, the destruction of icons and the defeat of causes. Trump’s presidency, Britain’s exit from the EU and the coronavirus pandemic felt ever so slightly less desperate because the grief and anguish was shared. Was it an echo chamber? Perhaps, but also a safe haven. And when Twitter did act as one—although occasionally cruel, misguided or counterproductive in its methods—it could be a genuine force for good in the world.

But that’s changed. Just as Twitter once promised a new beginning, its tweets a dawn chorus reverberating around the Internet and its dominant wing fixed firmly to the left, it has recently become something else, something darker. Elon Musk’s bastardised version, apparently called X, feels like a complete and comprehensive corruption of everything I thought Twitter to be—or at least everything I believe it could have been. Valued news sources have been unverified, uncensored hate speech has proliferated and some of the worst offenders have not merely been encouraged but subsidised with a share of its advertising revenue.

Ever since Musk’s takeover, I’ve been prevaricating about how to proceed. Many have flocked to new communities such as Mastadon and Bluesky, further tilting the direction of discourse on Twitter to the intolerant right. Now even the innocuous name and branding are to be changed, from sky blue to pitch black, making you wonder once again why Musk bought Twitter in the first place if determined to change everything about it. With half the staff, a fraction of the users and a completely new identity, what is actually left but the algorithm?

I’d hoped that Meta’s own Threads might come to the rescue, and there’s a chance that it may yet recapture some of that early Twitter magic. I’ve set up a profile, claimed my username and followed many of the same people, but it turns out the algorithm’s more important than I’d wanted to believe. It’s fun and diverting, sure, but without a linear newsfeed, a search function and direct messages it isn’t much use—especially when the feed remains stubbornly and mystifyingly free of the accounts I’ve chosen to follow. But it’s early days and the exodus from Twitter only looks set to continue, while updates and new features for Threads are promised.

For me, I think the time has finally, unfortunately come to quit Twitter—while indeed there’s still a Twitter left to leave. A nostalgic at heart, I’ve clung to the iconography, the terminology, the history; desperately hoping Musk might tire of his wanton destruction and move onto spoils new, leaving something diminished but still salvageable behind. But if Twitter, tweets and the little blue bird itself are truly destined to follow the Fail Whale into the recycling bin then there doesn’t seem to be much worth sticking around for.

Maybe it’s better this way. A clean break with no option to reverse course. Maybe it’ll spare my increasingly conflicted feelings about Twitter, preserve my happy memories of its heyday and spur me to reset my relationship with social media more generally, without the distracting push notifications and depressive doom scrolling. Whether given time Threads can stitch X up or eventually unravels itself, life will never be the same without Twitter. The world already feels smaller, quieter, heavier. The bird has flown the nest, never to return. But with any luck, we can still flock together elsewhere.