The sky through my open window changes from blue to a darker blue, to orange and red, and finally all fades to black while I sit hunched in front of my computer in the dark. What I’ve been looking for for the past hour or so is buried so painstakingly deep it feels like an archaeological dig, ever-so-gently peeling back the layers in search of a once-beloved treasure left to rust away deep under the earth.
Though it’s very hard to find, I know it’s in there somewhere. Because she couldn’t bear to actually get rid of it all. Even though she didn’t want to believe it anymore, even though she didn’t even want to see it. No, it all still exists somewhere—it was far too precious.
Finally, in a deliberately misleading-titled folder, within a folder within a folder (within another folder), on a hard drive buried under dozens and dozens of electrical cords, at the bottom of a drawer in an old wooden table, it’s there. My graveyard, the digital box where all of my rotten love goes to die. And though the files are only pixels on a screen, only collections of ones and zeros, I flip through them carefully like an ancient text, like delicate love letters from centuries ago.
All of this was real. These thoughts, these words, these works are a part of me. They are me, or at least a piece of me frozen inside a computer. How I felt about it when I buried it all, how I feel about it now—none of that matters. It’s all real. And what’s the point, anyway? There is no undo button in life. It’s just another type of lie to cover up, to erase, to bury the truth. What’s happened has happened, whether you like it or not.
As I read through it all, my own voice whispers in my ear like a ghost, be honest with yourself, and the idea sends a jolt through my chest. Freedom comes at a cost; it isn’t just a one-time act of courage, it’s over and over again—no matter the price.
Ugh, fine.
It’s a tedious process, putting everything back where it goes. Some of the data is missing; some things probably end up out of order. But eventually, I reconstruct it all. I restore the whole entire picture. It’s a complete fucking mess, but it’s an honest one. And maybe for the first time ever, I see it all for exactly what it is—whether I like it or not.