Twitter never worked for him. Nothing seemed to happen in his life worth constant commentary. Occasionally he’d attempt a joke or share his own blog post, but it never amounted to more than one or two tweets per month. He couldn’t understand how anyone could share text about themselves several times a day.
Then he got the flu. Suddenly the day was full of topics. His worries shrank to a queasy stomach and body temperature swings. And there was something to write about. Energized by feverish creativity, he even made his own wife laugh with a crude little poem. Constantly observing his physical state and limitations was exactly the mood that let him comment on life in a way others could understand too. The fever subsided. He shared something more about having underarm rolls even without working out, but then it was quiet. He’d recovered.
Twitter was never the same again. Behind every joke, sharp evening assessment, political sarcasm, he saw illness. He recognized that exceptional state, that concentration on one’s own suffering. Patients torn from ordinary life by their condition were evaluating and commenting on the fluctuations of their pain.