Blue Screen

I have been thinking that I could find you in the coded ether—  That you have been fragmented into bits and blips,  scattered across years of digital history.

I am like an archeologist excavating the data, 

A historian piecing together you,  A cartographer drawing lines through the entries left behind.  Every inconsequential keystroke,  every pixel one more tiny piece I steal back from the–  Wherever.   
All of it is you –   yet you are not.  
We scattered you in the wind—  like a snow crash  an entire system torn apart by the incurable virus of life.  
I had been thinking that I could find you.

~~~~~~

I recently rediscovered that I had access to my sister's Livejournal. Well, the bits that she granted me access too many years before she herself left it behind.

I think a lot about the whole "death of the author" thing and how it relates to some of the things I write. I think about what it would look like if anyone was to explicate any of the poetry I bravely share with the world--- and I think about what the "world" means to me now as a human who had the experience of both not having, and having the digital space to one day leave behind.