Saturday, April 16, 2011

Serial eraser

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When I get mad, I erase. I am known to tear my bedroom apart in search of memory bombs with the ability to detonate and take me back to the original source of anger in an instant. Usually this ritual is conducted when an ex-boyfriend has sent me over-board, frustrated past the point of deranged madness. OK, that is a slight exaggeration, but all you need to do is ask my boyfriend about my habit of destroying important mementos; on and off for just over seven-years, JH and I once exchanged a book of letters, which I, in what I can only describe as a heart-wrenchingly anger-fuelled fit, tossed into the trash. Error!

It was only this week I organised my entire email inbox, deleting anything remotely linked to people I no longer speak with – well, only one or two people, really. After hitting the ‘Empty Deleted Items’, I realised what I had done – and despite not needing these emails, there was no need to get rid of them as absent-mindedly as I did. Sure, bad things have happened. Relationships have been built form nothing, then have crumbled back into the dust they came from. Relics of the destruction once defining the connections I had with these people litter my bedroom – as well as my Outlook inbox! Although, without some of these small tokens, I guess I wouldn’t be able to appreciate what I have now and how lovely some of those friendships once were.  

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