Is it time or hindsight that violates memory? Is it time or is it action that corrupts who you are in someone’s mind? Is it time that rips apart your world, or is that something you can only do yourself? Is it simply time that makes your art rot like forgotten fruit, or is it the spores of fungus eating it all away?
A little while back, I spent a few hours searching through my musical archives. Like a detective, I pored over all the words and squeezed the subtext out of them until it left a pattern I could actually read. I documented everything, collected my files, and brought them into her office, ready to dump the evidence at her feet.
Do you see it? Don’t you see? There’s something wrong; there’s always been something so very, very wrong.
She loves the details. She asks me about the sea. I wonder how I could keep so many secrets from myself by simply burying them again and again in lyrics–in a million little songs.
I can’t stand most of them anymore. Every note and verse makes my skin crawl. I look through the work I used to love and feel disgust. Contempt. Shame. Resentment. Disdain. The more I read, the more heat I can feel smoldering in my stomach.
I gut album after album and toss everything in the bin–file after file goes into the trash. >delete. >delete. I almost wish I had them written down so I could crumple up the pages and set them all on fire. It might even be worth transcribing just so I could tear them up with my own hands. But no, just >delete. >delete.
I swipe through song after song after song. Dumb. Hate it. >delete. >delete. Stupid. Awful. >delete. >delete. Oh my GOD, who cares?? >delete. >delete. I dig through the folders like I’m rummaging through garbage–at this point, I am. I rip the pictures right off the walls. >delete. >delete. The drafts waiting in the dashboard. >delete. >delete. The digital photo gallery. >delete. >delete. All the letters, all the souvenirs, and all the fucking bullshit. I want it gone; I need to purge everything. >delete. >delete. >delete.
When I’m done, the last ember of vitriol finally fizzles out. All that’s left is the picked-at skeleton of my meaningless work, an empty green wall, and me, catching my breath on the cold hard floor. Everything is finally gone–but not the uneasy feeling in my stomach. I lean against the cold metal of the filing cabinet, and start to realize why I still feel sick. You can delete whatever you want from your world, but there will always be data in your internal storage that you just can’t erase.
Method of Mancy 