She died, yes, and though she had the heart to leave my secrets spilling in ever-so-many documents and obsessive collection of films intact, as if a testimony of solace, she took with her my 40 GB of music. On the said (adjective-splattered) day, I switched her on and off for a number of times before I smelt a rat and my heart skipped a beat (odd combination. Happens precisely when you discover your computer is raving in a diseased mind of its own). When she finally showed herself, evidently sick, I ignored her pleas, and went on with my work, until I realized that I needed music to -- well, you don't need music for a reason! You just need it, silly! And then, right there and then, I discovered that it was gone. My music, my soul, all 40 GB of glorious notes in all forms, languages, moods, emotions, thoughts and memories had just vanished. Poof! By a malaise of technology.
For two days I shed copious tears; traveled with my sick companion through the length and breadth of the city, hoping to make it revive, squeeze from its crevices the remnants of music, hoping to recall myself what my favourite tracks could have been. Apparently, racking my memory to recall 40 GB of love seemed as futile as pumping the Laptop for them. Since then, I know what it means to live in the "Sound of Silence". (Question for thought: Did Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel know what it means to have "darkness" as your best friend when you've lost all your music simply because of a fluke of technology and you were stupid enough not to keep a backup of your posessions? No, they didn't. And neither did Dustin Hoffman/Benjamin Braddock.)
Now I have my Laptop back, shiny after getting it formatted, all the documents stored in the relatively "safer" (I cannot use that word now without being a cynic) options, and all the films stacked in soulless DVDs. My songs folder is empty, and I need time to grow it back. I possibly cannot bring back all the titles I posessed the last time, simply because I cannot remember, for the life of me, what it stored. But as I stare at the empty drive, it looks like a new page turned, a blank sheet eager to be written on, eager to begin everything anew. With my life itself taking a new turn now post-university, I fervently refuse to believe Milan Kundera when he says, "We can never know what to want, because living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives, nor perfect it in our lives to come."
No Sire, not now, not today.
Au revoir. I have a new Laptop to befriend. Bis dann.