The story of what it means to lose a phone
Yesterday. My phone. Gone in a flash. First reaction – anger. Damn you, thief! My memories of the last six months, gone with the phone. In a flash, photos disappeared from my memory. They were, in fact, too many. I try to recall. Try to picture them so that not everything is lost, only the phone. I realize my memory was installed on the phone, when it should have been the other way around.
I almost bought a new phone in a [figurative] minute. I caught myself in a slight panic (on the scale of panic which overtakes most people who lose their phones nowadays, I can still proudly say, I don’t rank very high). But I, too, feared losing things. I feared losing touch with the world. That world. As if touching a screen could mean touching the world. My photos, I thought. Gone. My new contacts. Gone, too. My notes. Gone. Why haven’t I memorized anything important? Now, everything is gone and there is no hope of retrieving it. Not physically, but that is out of my hands. Not mentally, and here is where I fail. The part I could control I had mindlessly surrendered.
Today. The phone still missing. Electricity goes out. Lights, TV, internet gone in a flash. I catch myself reading. In a flash, I’m writing. I think “When it all returns, I’ll forget this feeling of freedom…” I will go back as if nothing happened: type out my notes, take photos, post them, turn to the TV and back to the laptop screen, all at the same time. My trusted friend, my yellow notebook, will rest by my bed, safely. Because no one steals a notebook.