Story-A-Day #121: Dirty Words

DIRTY WORDS

It is filthy, but functional, this keyboard of mine. It has been through hell and back, and is not exactly a new piece of hardware. This computer has been used and abused, and filled with a copious amount of files. It has been spilled on, dumped on, bumped, nudged and smashed around.

This computer was old when I got it, a 100GB power horse rendered nearly obsolete through rapidly mutating technology.

Inside this computer are photographs, some scans, and some digital dating all the way back to 2004. Those early digital shots were done on a tiny camera, with a tiny view screen, and a whopping 3.2 megapixels. They are nostalgia condensed to a 5x7 print optimization…

Also within this computer is an ancient version of iTunes, one that does not support album artwork, or even the iPhone I sometimes write on. There are songs in there that fill me with the whimsy of nostalgia, tokens from the past that elicit a different time. Scanning through the play list, there, I see a number of barely familiar titles and artists, whims that once took me into their arms and tickled my cochlea fancy.

There are memories scattered throughout this old relic, but there is also work, just as important. Peppered throughout the digital pathways of this old beast are stories and ramblings, freelance projects from days gone by.

There is an entire history worth of writing tucked away in those creaking recesses.

There is a completed novel in there, and substantial portions of two others. Years of hard labour have been spent toiling over this filthy keyboard. I have tried to clean this computer up, remove the junk files, scrape away the sticky gunk from its shell, blast the dust lining from the battered old keyboard.

I have tried, and I have failed.

There are days when this computer fills me with anxiety. What if the next time it goes to sleep, it never wakes up again. She has been a faithful companion through the years, but no amount of love can remedy the ailments within; no kiss from Prince Charming will wake her should she get to that point.

And if she does, all will be lost. The memories, nostalgia and writing of a decade: gone. As I type these dirty words, the looming dread of reality grows. She is not long for this life.