“You now have unlimited storage,” says the message when you check your mail. Does everything not have a limit? I may not have to worry about deleting large files, forwards, links…they can all remain where they are. New ones will come and my space would accommodate all of these.
You know something? I don’t like it. Earlier when I’d see that marker saying “You are using 60 per cent of your capacity” I at least knew that I was using something, that I was being used. Now? There is unlimited chaos. Things will come and lodge themselves in the place I inhabit; I have anyway not been good at deletions but the fear of losing something precious in the crowd made me move things out.
With this additional space I feel like I have the key to a house and don’t know how many rooms are there. I enter one and it opens out into another and then another…I want to use the facilities and it says, “All items in the Bulk Folder will be deleted automatically after 30 days”. I pull the flush several times a day, yet shit piles up. I run to find a bed to rest in, and just when I am getting comfortable I look around and find several beds, as though I am in a dormitory.
There are some smiles, some laughter, some tears, some stories, some truths, some lies. Unlimited supply.
I ought to be happy. This is what the world wants. Free space. Lots of it.
Fear grips me. With so much coming in, there is a sense of emptiness like everything is falling into a crater. There is a feeling that what is important will be lost. I can flag it, but isn’t the idea behind something important its ability to silently sit by your side without having to announce its presence?
I have stopped looking at the top right corner when I sign in. Don’t tell me I have all the space in the world.
I knocked off a knick-knack from its pedestal. It was unbreakable. But after its fall as it lay in repose on the floor, it looked different. It seemed like an animal twisted in pain, and it was a human figurine.
We do it all the time – drop, get hit by, hit out at, bang into things.
We can do it in large exhibition halls, art galleries, shopping malls. Even in open fields, we crush the grass as we walk on it.
As for large hearts, who wishes to belong to one that is dotted with cadavers rotting only because we say, hey, nothing is really over?
The one time I tried to paint after making a dark sketch, I realised I was filling it in, I was working within the circumference. The moment I went out of it, the marks of the pencil remained. Attempting to erase it left blotches on the colours. I was not doing justice to either.
When I use water-colours, I know the paper is of a certain size, I know my limited space. But there is such freedom as I mix the colours, dip the brush in and spread it on the paper with splashes of water. What forms with the basic idea may be better than what my imagination could conjure. The fluidity of the things in my possession takes it beyond even what I may be capable of. It is free to be itself for it has given me the power to call it its own.
I belong to it as it belongs to me.
Neither of us has ever asked for unlimited space.