What happened tonight, in slow, calm, and calculated prose- I began blogging at least three or four separate times today, but quit, not knowing what to write at all. Finally, I began. And finished. I was really proud of what I wrote. It didn't suck. And I lost it. All of it. I don't know where it went, but it's gone, its poignancy lost forever, turning in the cogs of my sadist computer.

First I mourned. I was devastated, and made no effort to hide it. Then, with quivering lip and watering eye, I attempted to reconstruct it. I wrote the first two paragraphs and gave up, even sadder than I was when all of it was gone.

And the interesting thing about it is this- I would almost guarantee that what I remembered was incredibly similar, if not identical, to what I originally wrote. But typing it as a mere imitation, while the ghosts of my firstfruit words still hung in the air and whispered to me was too much to bear.

I've never experienced this before, because I always write a hard copy before I type anything of meaning. It feels as if a very dear friend has left without warning, and I know nothing of his return. I don't know if I will ever write of it again, which is a shame.

Where has it gone? I fear it will haunt me forever.