Getting on with it.

Today I was looking for a short story I had written (inspired by gee who, you of course) when I realized that the folder holding it was gone from my desktop. Then I realized that the shit CD I was going to research (disparage) for a paper was still on my computer (Elephant Business, by the Black Eyed Peas. Goddamn it sucks.) I had deleted my archival of writing in place of this CD. Every single story I had written, was writing, and in the process of editing was gone. Lost to the annals of time. I felt disappointed, but it wasn't the world-ending process I thought it would be. I accepted that it was gone from my life forever, and that I could just write better things. After all, the things I had written I now read and recognize as embarrassingly sloppy.

(I backed it up on the internet. On a protagonize account, whooooo. Only the complete stories though; drafts are completely gone. So out of let's say 80 things written, only 20 were salvaged)

Why was it so easy for me to accept the fact that all of these stories that I had written were gone? That all of these ideas that had racked my brain since senior year, all of these sentences that I had typed out were now simply ghosts on my computer? I mean, conceivably I should be mad. Even though these ideas weren't finished, they were still ideas; things that could be developed into a good story. Now they're all gone, gone, gone.

So what? Who cares?

I've realized that as a writer I've grown, so it's okay to leave these stories behind, since I can write even better than I could before. And just like the muse that inspired them, I should feel the same way about you. It shouldn't hurt to move on with my life, it shouldn't hurt to stop trying to make you mine. As a person I've grown too, and as such I should accept the fact that I've lost you and move past you, re-prioritize and try again. We can write much better love stories with different people anyway.

(Hooray for writing this at work)