In late 2005 or early 2006, Noah Glass burst into our office, brimming with excitement. This was typical of Noah; he was always enthusiastic about new ideas. He worked just across the hall from us in an aging building in South Park and frequently dropped by to chat. On this occasion, he was eager to introduce us to a project he had been developing: a service designed for sending group SMS messages.

"That sounds silly," I replied dismissively.

"Check out the logo!" he urged.

"Even sillier," I countered.

This was my first encounter with Twitter, then known as twttr. I was correct about the logo being unappealing but mistaken in underestimating the platform’s potential. Initially, I found it difficult to grasp its purpose. I wasn’t interested in what others were having for lunch or their current locations, especially during the peak of check-in services where sharing one's whereabouts was the norm. Despite my reservations, I created an account and tweeted occasionally, almost deleting my account several times. But one fateful morning, while heading to therapy, I tweeted, "I’ve been shot!" without thinking, and then switched off my phone to focus on my session.

Upon turning my phone back on, I was inundated with messages—texts, voicemails, and replies to my tweet. Among them was my now-wife, inquiring about my hospital status. This incident marked my realization of Twitter’s purpose: it was a space for humor and connection. (My wife still considers that tweet a poor joke.) From that moment onward, I was hooked.

The early years of Twitter were filled with laughter and creativity. I connected with fellow joke-tellers and even paused our humor to support friends in need. Our community thrived on humor, leading to the creation of a website that ranked our jokes in a competitive format.

As we engaged in our playful banter, we also formed meaningful relationships. There was a time when initiating a conversation didn’t result in hostile exchanges. Many of my closest friends today are people I met on Twitter, some of whom I have yet to meet in person, despite living continents apart. Remarkably, I know of couples who began their relationships on Twitter and are now raising families together.

Twitter also became a platform for sharing milestones—celebrating birthdays, supporting each other through loss, and even sharing images of cats and other light-hearted content.

The platform improved my writing skills, teaching me to convey thoughts succinctly within a 140-character limit. As someone who tends to be introverted, Twitter provided an avenue for me to break out of my shell. Every 'like' I received bolstered my confidence, transforming Twitter from a joke-sharing platform to a space for discussing design ideas. I eventually authored two design books, with their concepts originating from discussions on Twitter, often drafting sentences to fit the character limit for feedback.

Twitter played a significant role in my development as a writer.

Yet, I recognize that my first editor would likely argue that her guidance was crucial to my growth, and she would be right. Nevertheless, I met her through Twitter.

There was a time when Twitter was a playful escape, fostering friendships and encouraging intellectual engagement. However, it has been years since I felt enlightened by my interactions on the platform, even though those early moments were genuine.

I moved to San Francisco in 1999, part of a wave of individuals who contributed to the city’s transformation. My motivation wasn’t wealth; it was the thrill of a burgeoning internet landscape that felt revolutionary. We aspired to create new forms of communication and empower individuals to voice their thoughts without seeking approval.

The atmosphere in San Francisco was charged with optimism and ambition, driven partly by financial backing for hopeful innovators. We were young, naive, and equipped with unprecedented technological capabilities, fueling our dreams with youthful exuberance.

I remember the sense of possibility that permeated the city. We were confident, believing we could change the world.

Unfortunately, we did.

Twitter emerged during the final stages of this transformative era, aiming to amplify every voice. However, they neglected to consider the implications of granting everyone a platform. This oversight became Twitter’s fundamental flaw. Like Oppenheimer, Twitter was preoccupied with the thrill of creation without contemplating the consequences.

The platform was founded by a group of privileged individuals who failed to recognize the potential dangers of their invention. To this day, Jack Dorsey seems unaware of the weighty responsibilities he shoulders or mistakenly perceives them as metaphorical. He is ill-equipped to manage the fallout of what has been unleashed.

This immense influence rests with individuals who prioritize their egos over meaningful communication, creating a chilling reality.

On November 8, 2008, I watched Barack Obama secure the presidency while seated on a couch at Twitter's headquarters. The occasion felt significant, as it seemed to mark the internet's active role in shaping political outcomes. I sat there, tears streaming down my face, realizing that the collective voices on the platform had contributed to this monumental moment. In 2008, I believed that Twitter played a role in electing a president.

I was mistaken by eight years.

However, facilitating presidential elections and claiming credit for social movements do not guarantee business success. Like many startups of that time, Twitter lacked a clear business strategy. Changing the world is not a viable plan for sustainability. I’m no business expert, so I won’t delve into the intricacies of their challenges, as the internet is already filled with analyses from knowledgeable individuals.

What I can state is that every venture-backed company aims to demonstrate growth metrics to satisfy investors. This has become Silicon Valley's original sin. As Twitter stagnated, the consequences of plateauing became more severe than failure.

Recognizing the need for revitalization, Twitter unwittingly sought a means to ignite their potential. In March 2009, Donald Trump joined Twitter, initially unnoticed. At the time, he was perceived as a has-been from the real estate world, relegated to reality TV. We found amusement in his antics, laughing at his trivial comments.

However, Trump's rhetoric began to resonate with deeper societal issues, tapping into America’s underlying racism and gaining traction. He cultivated a considerable following, deriving satisfaction from the attention his divisive statements garnered.

As his tweets shifted from lighthearted banter to incendiary remarks targeting marginalized groups, his audience expanded, and Twitter found itself at a crossroads. Faced with investor demands for growth, the platform made a fateful choice to prioritize the audience Trump attracted over its foundational principles.

That decision marked a turning point for Twitter.

Twitter positions itself as a bastion of free speech, with its founders advocating for a hands-off approach. However, I urge you to consider the marginalized voices that have been silenced in the process. The platform has evolved into a vehicle for amplifying hate—a machine perpetuating discrimination.

Twitter may argue for objectivity, yet it continually shifts its standards of acceptability to accommodate its most profitable users. Trump's tweets fuel the very machine that threatens to explode, representing a stark contrast between harmless social commentary and threats of global conflict.

In an ideal scenario, Twitter's leadership would have condemned harmful tweets, emphasizing accountability and community standards. Unfortunately, such actions never transpired.

Today, Twitter is a breeding ground for animosity—a consequence of decisions made by its founders without foresight into their implications. They intended to create a platform for connection, yet they overlooked the potential for abuse and harm.

I have known numerous individuals who have worked at Twitter over the years. Many have departed, often out of frustration, as their efforts to address issues were stymied by leadership's reluctance to acknowledge problems. When those in charge refuse to recognize a crisis, meaningful change becomes nearly impossible.

In the coming days, I expect Jack Dorsey will make declarations about the need for transparency—a common refrain when companies face scrutiny. However, calls for transparency often arise after missteps have been exposed. Twitter's current state reflects the sum of its choices, and the consequences are undeniable.

Twitter has failed to perceive Donald Trump as a threat, viewing him instead as a solution to their stagnation. As Upton Sinclair aptly noted, "It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends upon his not understanding it."

As I began drafting this reflection, I contemplated whether to close my Twitter account. The negativity on the platform had begun to take a toll on my mental health—a concern I must prioritize. While I remain undecided about deactivating my account, I recognize the importance of stepping back to gain perspective. This discourse transcends Twitter itself; it encompasses larger societal implications. When Trump's words instigate conflict, the fallout extends beyond the platform, affecting individuals who have never engaged with it.

What happens when the very tool that could offer salvation also poses a threat to global stability? Where does one's responsibility lie?

Twitter aspired to transform the world. And it did.

And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm —Emily Dickinson