I have a bad habit of deleting things. Files, folders, photos, memories. Anything I can get rid of I try to get rid of. It’s an impulsive action, one that almost always causes problems.
For example, every week I end up deleting every phone number from my cell phone. This stops me from reaching out to people I might want to talk to, but that may be the point. I think part of me only wants to deal with things I can’t get rid of. I’ve been horrified by death since I was six years old and I’ve been trying to ready myself for it since then.
Death to me is the final deletion, it might not really be, maybe everything is etched into the universe forever, but I have no way to know. From where I perceive reality things look temporary. Moments in time don’t repeat, even if the days seem similar, they’re still separate. So when I delete something, I imagine I can never get it back. Maybe I want to be proven wrong, or maybe I’m just mentally ill, I don’t know. Regardless of what the reasonings may be, deleting things has not hardened me towards death, I’m still terrified of it. I find dying so scary that I really don’t even want to live most of the time, since the two of them, dying and living, are so intimately connected. Can’t do one without the other, and I really hate one of them, so I guess I won’t be doing much while I’m here.
I wonder how long I can go before deleting these blog posts. It really would be nice to finally break the habit and commit to keeping something.