So Wyffy, the OwnCloud service I used to store all my writing files on, has shut down out of the middle of nowhere. I can’t get in. Everything that I had on there is gone.
Except, for, you know, all of my writing files. Because I kept them backed up on my hard drive!
I’ll probably dig up one of my many inactive Nextcloud accounts I have lying all around to replace Wyffy. I mean, there won’t be the nostalgia factor that comes with using something I found out during the great move of late 2016. But as long as it works and the operators don’t randomly shut it down and nuke their entire service, I think I’ll be fine from here on out.
Also, apparently the college I’ll be attending soon gives all their students a Google account with unlimited storage, so I’ll be learning how to use (g)rsync and Veracrypt to abuse that as a backup option too. Even though I hate Google with all my guts…
Sometimes, whenever I’m playing a video game- whether it’s the newest one somehow still scratch-free or some of the oldest ROMs I can find on the deepest reaches of the internet, an incredible wave of sonder washes over me.
Imagine, if you will, a hill. A green, pixelated hill in the middle of a courtyard. Waterfalls run here and there. The year is 1998, and you’ve opened a brand new game, and so have millions of other people, for shadows of your little purple dragon run amok, each one of them representing a different person somewhere else in the world playing that exact same game in that same in-game location. None of them obstruct your way- in fact, the shadows can be turned off at any time. But you like them, because they’re easier to follow than waiting for a walkthrough to be released. And it’s fun watching people throw themselves off the edge.
At first, the place is overrun. A steady stream of the same damn character going to the same places. But as time goes on and on, the stream slows down. The characters stop coming one by one.
And then there’s only you left. And, every once in a great while, another shadow. They never come with names or tags of any kind- you have no idea who they are, how they’re playing, where in the real-life world they are. All you know is that someone, somewhere, is pressing buttons with you.
Every game is like this. Every game starts off with a torrent of shadows, numbers descending through the years. Sometimes the game lives on in glorious fame- or infamy- and you’re never alone. Sometimes it falls victim to the great sifter of time, falling in the cracks, and there were never any other shadows to begin with, just you.
a ticket fell into my hands today
a train ride, a trip of a lifetime
to a gash wider than the crevice in my heart
severed three- no, four years ago
I turn the ticket over in my hand
a ring sounds, never stopping for four years hence
no matter how hard I try to block the number
it still finds a way to slither in
I study the stub at the end of the ticket
a siren-song of total freedom
roaming around the world- or the country, at least- in a house on wheels
because home is where you choose it to be- everywhere and nowhere
I slip the ticket into my book as a bookmark
and close the pages and look out the window
the clouds are parting, the moon is full
and I’m ready to jump
but it’s not my time yet