For over a year, I’ve been tracking my tweets over the last year. Every morning I get a breakdown of what I’ve done, or wished to share, one year ago through the media channel of Twitter. It’s a weird, self reflection exercise, a method of praising or a pat on that back that says “you are better off than you were a year ago.”
There’s a large feeling of nostalgia that occurs when I look through my past tweets. It’s a snapshot of my life, an instance where my existence is set into short sentences, 140 characters to explain a thought that may be much greater, self editing yourself to fit within the means of restrictions, narrowing down your life for quick consumption, only to be gobbled up by the next news that quickly refreshes from 1000s of other followers.
It’s something that makes your life not seem as important, that the memories you wish to share with others are snippets, bites of information only. These tweets are nothing but data, but to yourself are memories. It’s as if Twitter is a time capsule, but rather than physical objects, your memories sit on a server reduced to a series of 1s and 0s.