Clean Slate

Do you know that feeling, that growing sense of desperation when you've just seen something you love disappear right before your eyes? You know, like when you've been working on something for several hours, but idiotically never pressed save, so your vengeful computer decided to crash on you to teach you a lesson? That kind of desperation.

It was Friday night and I just had my SIM reinstalled in my new phone, after the previous one died unexpectedly on me. Unsurprisingly, nothing was the same. No old contacts, no messages or photos; no history of me before the sudden death of my phone whatsoever. It was a perfectly clean slate. I wanted to cry.

I've only had that phone for a month or two, but it seemed like it held a lifetime's worth of stories that nobody will ever know about. All the clever chats and witty messages I've exchanged with a few friends; all the private photos I took of myself and the people I'm close with. I will never be able to look back on anything that happened in that tiny frame of time that somehow started to look important the moment it was gone. It's irrational and stupid, but I felt like a neighbor's dog just ate a diary I've had since I was five.

I feel like there might be a lesson there, and somehow it's about not getting attached—be it to things, people, or the memories you've shared together—but tonight I feel like moping around, and there's a big bowl of ice cream I wish was sitting by my side and offering its comfort.