I am a collection of fragments.
It takes a bit of work to find the bits and pieces of myself. A comment here, a post there. The evidence of my existence obliterated with a keystroke.
(There is nothing I can do about the photographs others have taken of me. I will exist there in cyberspace, floating in the Phantom Zone like General Zod, that fragment a missing puzzle piece forever lost.)
And maybe it's just the snow, the dark days of January, that have me feeling this urge to purge, to absolve myself. Or maybe it's something deeper, something primal and protective and pure.
The world wide web. Aptly named, this trap we have set for ourselves. We see things we would be better off not seeing. We say things we would be better off not saying. We know things we would be better off not knowing. I no longer want to see, or say, or know.
I've shared so much. You think you know me. You judge me based on these fragments, these bits I've portioned out, but they aren't who I am, not really. Or maybe they are. Or maybe they both are and are not at once, like time travel.
The ink on a computer screen is not indelible. (It's not even ink.) It will be like I never was. And maybe you'll wonder about me. (Who was that girl?, you'll ask. Wouldn't you like to know, I'll answer.) Or maybe you won't care, won't even notice I'm gone. It's all the same, really. I'll be gone, undigitized, a link to nowhere, and what you think won't matter. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
I can't quit myself all at once, though. They are parts of my whole even if they are only ones and zeros, born of blood and electrical synapses, fragments of this person alive here in this room in the dark with my feet under a blanket and the sound of the furnace humming beneath me and the cat shifting in her sleep and the moonlight glinting off the snow.