Not too long ago, as I went through all my files and folders on my laptop and reorganised them, a slip of the hand resulted in the loss of every single remotely creative file from my past.
I lost all my short stories, starts to longer stories, poems, shashtangs, snippets I’d written for or about Alex, emails and letters exchanged with old boyfriends or crushes or friends, angsty teenage diary posts, song lyrics, descriptions of images or visions that I’d had for theatre shows, the lot. All gone.
I was so upset at first. It was basically like the younger, slightly more naive version of me never existed. Now I’ve come to terms with it. Kind of.
Tonight I miss those files. Tonight I want to finish the short snippet I’d started writing about the little girl who made friends with a chocolate croissant.
Or maybe, go back and read the poem I wrote for Alex about how we’d change the world through the use of the word ‘nway’.
Oh well.
The truth is, I’m procrastinating terribly, because I’m lost on this essay, and if I try to think about it again, I might cry.
