Wasn’t sure whether to upload this one or not, but figured since it’s a part of my writing history, I may as well. Not that I think it’s good or worth reading, just slightly amusing looking back on it. At least for me, anyway.
(From previous blog, unedited)
I was planning on going to sleep, but then I accidentally hit the wrong thing on the computer and deleted all my bookmarks. So, I had to spend the next hour and half searching for solutions to recover my lost bookmarks, even after I had already recovered them. The reason for this is because they weren’t all restored. I am still missing maybe a hundred or so files and folders I added over the last few months. Everything is in disarray. I had recently reorganized all my files and folders and deleted any useless or otherwise unnecessary junk. Now those files have returned, while the ones I recently added are gone.
If I come off as incoherent or rambling it’s because it’s late at night and I’m too tired at this point to think properly. I’m so sluggish, I can’t even feel frustrated or angry. I just feel defeated. It’s not as bad as I make it out to be, but I can’t help but be slightly concerned that I lost something incredibly important (something I need), instrumental for my work, or at least handy / somewhat useful. I hate this. Not knowing. If I knew what I lost, then at least I could always get it back manually by re-bookmarking everything. (Sigh). But I don’t remember, so there’s no point in worrying about it. And yet, I can’t shake the feeling of unease, because now my computer is lacking in some way. It lacks what it had before and now it feels uncomfortable to use it, to pretend that it’s not missing anything.
I don’t know why I’m writing this. To express my thoughts? To vent or find some way to relieve whatever feelings I have? Maybe just to feel like some good came out of it, something productive? I hope it’s the latter. At least that way I can fool myself into believing I’m fine-tuning my writing skills. Vulnerability. That’s the word. It’s an opening in the foggy haze of my memory that has me troubled. Doubt starts to creep in and stir up distressing thoughts. I hate that feeling. It’s self-destructive, pointless and ultimately a waste of time.
All I can do is look forward, I guess. Stop myself from retracing my steps, and just turn the other way and keep moving. It’s the harder road to walk, since we all cling to the past in one way or another, but it’s the only way forward. So, I’ll try and forget about this little bump in the road. I’m so tired I hardly have the strength to keep my eyelids up anymore. And with that, I sign off.