He never understood how Twitter actually works. There seemed to be nothing going on in his life that was worth constant tweeting. Occasionally he would attempt a joke or share a blogpost of his own, but it wasn’t for more than one or two tweets a month. He didn’t understand at all how someone could share a text about themselve several times a day.
And then he got a flu. Suddenly an ordinary day provided a lot of inspiration. His mind was focused on his wobbly stomach and fluctuating body temperature. And that was plenty to write about. Fueled by feverish creativity, he even made his own wife laugh by a dirty poem. The constant observation of his physical condition was exactly the mood that enabled him glossing life in a way that others could understand. But then the temperature dropped back below 37 Celsius. He managed to share something almost funny about pain without gain. But then he muted. There was silence. He was cured.

Twitter was never the same for him. Behind every joke, self irony or political sarcasm, he saw his own state of illness. He recognized that state of Twittering, that focus on one’ s own suffering. Patients, distratced by their state from ordinary life, commented and glossed over the fluctuations of their pain.