Delete

I love to delete stuff.

I love to empty the trash.

It thrills me to drag files,

official documents, last year's

tax returns, my online

life coach certificate,

whole folders, even

my curriculum vitae

to the Recycle Bin,

then click "Empty."

I love to drag pictures of

loved ones, politicians,

gurus, even old photos of

myself to the ominous can

and hear the sound of all things

crinkle up and whoosh away.

But first, I like to hear my computer

get nervous and ask,

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

Oh yeah, I do."

"This action cannot be reversed,"

says the Program.

"It is like the vector of time itself.

You will permanently un-create

all your information, life's labor,

perhaps the whole world cast

into outer darkness,

lost in the black hole

at the center of the galaxy

and reduced to less than a byte

for a hundred billion years

until the next big bang,

when dazed naked goddesses

and goat-hoofed pans

will stumble into the unimaginable

blue light of a new creation,

holding hands, innocently

paired in Gnostic sygyzies,

binary memes of Depth

and Silence, Mind and Truth,

Nothingness and Wonder,

children of the one clear

immaculate Desk Top..."

But I don't answer.

I just watch the squirm and pulse

of the ancient Gnostic server

who says, "I won't ask you this again."

"That's right, Mac, don't ask me again."

"Are you really sure?"

I savor the silence, the flicker of cool

suddenly vulnerable 

 incandescence. 

 Then I tap, "Yes."

A moment later, I breathe,

real slow and empty,

a survivor.

Nothing artificial

about My intelligence.

I know that I Am

because I have deleted

everything else.

 

Photo by Samantha Wallace