Delete

Addressing your phone's storage problem can be journey.

My phone keeps telling me that it’s running out of storage space. Or, as I more often phrase it: my phone is running out of memory.

I delete apps I haven’t opened in months. PDFs I downloaded to retrieve information better suited for a webpage - binned. I don’t delete all the photos of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. They are good for the soul. Perhaps of more mental worth that the Headspace app, whose free version I’ve been demoted to after a year-long code slinked off. I promised a lot of people with years of education and training that’d I’d try mindfulness, but the man’s voice turned me off. Instead, I listen to the 45-minute rain sounds loop. Not every night, sometimes not even every week. But now and then, I want the hiss and pebble of rain to be my lullaby.

The notification persists. Some system functions may not work. Some systems functions may malfunction.

I trail through my WhatsApp messages. A group chat where people spend more time explaining the link they sent and apologising for their tone being flippant in the OG post. An archaeology of rubbish. Clear chat. I keep the DMCs with one particular person because therein I’ve planted ideas for my future. She doesn’t realise it, but she holds some of my dreams. I debate Year Zero-ing one years-long chain. She has explained why she became something of a stranger and I bear her no ill.

I hover over the option to delete the conversations and confessions and comfortings. I let it all go, a fresh start. Maybe. The phone is on silent but I pretend I hear that pneumatic swish. Maybe clearing out the storage and the clutter means we can start swinging cats again.