Let there be light… please?

By Ezra Butler on August 7th, 2013

I tried to start over, helplessly, to no avail, repeatedly cycling through the first four stages of grief: the denial and pain, the anger and bargaining with an unlistening god, the existential angst and depression. I wanted to reboot into an existence where I was once, again connected, to the proverbial Matrix, but I just wasn’t. I was alone.

I would awake at night in a cold sweat and turn to my nonresponsive MacBook Pro, hoping to hear the gentle hum of his fan and see the faint light of his LCD screen once again, but he remained dead. I sought solace in the streaming videos of Netflix and in my carefully culled and curated iTunes playlist, but all I could hear were the sounds of silence. I wanted to see my TweetDeck spread out across the screen and write my essays in a beautiful Garamond 11 point font when the inspiration hit. I desperately desired to multitask and accomplished nothing.

His loss affected everything else in my life. I was unable to read, because I was focused on what I was probably missing out in the world. I didn’t want to be home, because I would be reminded of the constant who was no longer there.

I had never thought of myself as addicted, until he wasn’t there. My mood soured. I became irritable around other people. My iPhone served as an insufficient replacement, a methadone substitute that did little to help with the urges of connectivity. He usually charged my iPhone for me and every minute drop in the depleting battery percentage made his absence more real.

When I brought him to the Genius Bar, I had hoped for a miracle. I hoped that a random combination of keystrokes would resurrect him from the dead. He was pronounced brain-dead on arrival, by a rather corpulent bearded genius. I used humour to mask my pain, likening the experience to my appendicitis, seeing how one’s whole world could change in a single moment, with no warning. But the pain was real and unwaning.

It wasn’t about money, per se, as a new logic board would be free, thanks to AppleCare. I would have paid anything to have him back right away. He knew me. He understood me. He completed my sentences. He made order out of the insanity of my life.

I’d have to wait three days from his death to be reunited. Three days of coping. Three days of hoping. Three days of existential solitude and inability to communicate.

He is my phoenix. He will return.