My life is not a chip of software.

It is not hundreds of thousands of lines of code, written by aspiring programmers ready to solve the world’s next biggest problems.

A few months ago, I had said to a friend, “I don’t like how everything about my life is on my phone. My contacts, photos, notes, passbooks, travel plans. I don’t want something where if I lose it, it’s going to feel like I’ve lost my life.”

Given my track record of losing phones (another story/stories for another time), he jokingly responded, “Well that’s just because you lose everything. I like having everything in one place. It makes things easier and simpler.”

We argued constructively after that about the advantages and disadvantages of technology’s advancing pace and prevalence, but nothing will change what I realized that day.

My life is not a social platform, nor is it quantifiable in anything but memories and experiences. It cannot be measured in my tagged photos (nor in the one’s I’ve de-tagged), in a grid of square filters, or in a collection of 1–10 second stories. It is not a 13 inch laptop that can be damaged with the same liquid that makes life possible. It is not my snapchat story, and it is not my Facebook albums. It is not a USB drive, and it is not a chip of software. It cannot be represented in something small enough to fit in the palm of your hand because no one’s life should be so easily lost at a flick of the wrist, a hardware malfunction, or the swipe of a reset button.

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