I'd always described myself as an artist. Whenever I was required to give a description of any sort, my name, age, gender, all were secondary if they were even mentioned at all. I was an artist and a writer. Lately, just an artist. Not much of one, but that's all I had to define myself.
And now the only thing I had been willing to use to measure my worth and substance as a human being is gone. My creations were not so much simply released from me as they were torn; each and every thing I do is very much a part of my soul. Whether or not anyone ever sees it - especially if no one ever sees it - it is a crucial part of me. It is the reason I will go to great lengths to protect my sketchbooks from physical harm, even to the point of being stepped on or kicked or burnt myself. It is the reason I made sure to save every copy of every file, the scanned bitmap, the photoshop file, the colored final product. It was mine and mine alone, and I took comfort in knowing it was safe.
But I was too stupid to make sure that everything was backed up.
And now I feel hollow. Everything that defined me and offered a reminder of who and what I was is gone. The finished products are here and there on the internet, but that simply lowers me to the level of an observer. I have no evidence that yes, I painstakingly colored every last pixel, I spent my time and effort on this or that piece of art. My foundation has dissolved.
And I am desperately grasping for something that isn't there anymore.
And I am ashamed that I am so pathetic that all which is meaningful to me is so worthless and fragile that it could be destroyed by the likes of a magnet.