I’ve been watching the chaos on Twitter — from a safe distance — and I keep thinking to myself: nothing has changed and yet everything has.
I stopped using Twitter a long time ago. The space was too loud, too cruel, too eager to turn pain into performance. Too many people were trying to be the smartest, the funniest, the most provocative version of themselves. It was a place where people wrote nonsense just to get a reaction. I remember the era of ‘subdelivery man,’ when chaos was entertainment and the goal wasn’t truth, but virality.
I stayed away for my own sanity.
But recently, I started peeking again. Mostly because I met someone new and, in the spirit of due diligence, wanted to do some harmless research.
Unfortunately, that meant I walked straight into whatever this Ezra/Maki debacle was. For days now, the ordeal has taken over the timeline like mold on damp walls. It spreads, reinvents itself, shifts shape, mutates. Every hour, there is a new twist, a new villain, a new theory crafted with the confidence of a man who has never read a book but believes he should be teaching a seminar.
And as the discourse keeps shapeshifting, one thing has become painfully clear: We have lost the capacity to hold the truth. We only know how to perform around it.
I didn’t stop using Twitter because I’m above mess — I stopped because the mess became a worldview.
Twitter once had a kind of unserious joy: it was unserious on purpose. Now, the unhinged are still here; but they’re weaponised. Twitter has birthed a generation of people I now hear are called banger boys — men who treat discourse like a sport of humiliation, misogyny, and power. Men who resent women so deeply they turn every conversation into a referendum on gender. Men who manufacture fake tweets and edited screenshots just to feel victorious in arguments that aren’t theirs.
Twitter used to be stupid. Now it is cruel.
What started as serious allegations about manipulation, power imbalance, and genuinely disturbing behaviour has now become a playground for misogynists performing detective work they are absolutely not qualified for. Suddenly, the timeline is flooded with men pretending to care about women “lying,” even though these same men don’t believe women about anything — not harassment, not abuse, not cheating.
The deflection is Olympic-level.
The re-centering of themselves is predictable.
The refusal to sit with nuance is exhausting.
In the noise, the heart of the matter, the harm, has disappeared. What remained was the infliction of calculated, unnecessary damage.
Honestly, I would be deeply disappointed if legal action is not taken. Every person who was doxed — including people who had nothing to do with this madness — should be speaking to lawyers. Maki chose to expose private individuals to the bile of the internet simply because she wanted to hurt someone else. That is not merely unkind.
It is unwell.
It is dangerous.
It is violent.
And the most infuriating part? She keeps insisting she has “evidence” — a thing she has never produced. She is like the tricksters at parks who do card tricks: “Look here, not there.”
Misdirection. Chaos masked as revelation.
Worse than a liar: she performs truth.
She gives the shape of truth.
The temperature of truth.
Just enough to make you doubt your own instincts.
For me, she is a con artist. Not in the petty sense, but in the spiritual one. She twists narratives. She relies on distraction. She counts on the average Twitter user being too overstimulated and under-equipped to notice the manipulation.
Watching this unravel reminded me why I deleted Twitter years ago. The timeline is an echo chamber of unprocessed trauma masquerading as analysis. People are not arguing from clarity: they’re arguing from pain, projection, and boredom.
And the most sobering thing I realised as I deleted the app once again: I am not meant to exist on a platform that thrives on the destruction of nuance.
Because nuance is where truth lives, and Twitter is allergic to it.
What I saw this week wasn’t discourse. It wasn’t justice or accountability. It was a mass of wounded people reenacting their own heartbreaks on a public stage. Dragging others into it. Inflicting harm because they don’t know what to do with their own.
And so the only honest conclusion — the only one that isn’t drenched in performance or venom — is this:
We should all be in therapy.
Not as an insult or a punchline, but as a plea.
We cannot keep bleeding on people who did not cut us.
We cannot keep confusing trauma with truth.
We cannot keep mistaking chaos for clarity.
Therapy will not fix the timeline, but it might fix the people tweeting on it.