My password was about to expire. I've been told this by a personal computer in no uncertain terms. It has been made more than clear to me - more than clear to me - that I am expected to choose a new one.
It had to be memorable. Have a mix of capital and lower-case letters. Maybe the odd numeric thrown in. It had to say something about me. Something positive, yet something no-one else would consider about my character if they looked at me hidden underneath this thick thick jumper. It had to have a beginning middle and an end, a driving narrative, a startling opening with a devastating twist at its conclusion, repeated again and again in an infinite line of be-straggled asterisks.
Any missed detail, how ever slight, would leave me open to a savage and violent attack. My account hacked, my Spotify T’Pau Hidden Gems playlist published all over social media, printed on posters, displayed on billboards, read out in solemnity in every church in England.
I clicked to change. First I must type the old password. Useless empty passages and cod-philosophy. The mis-guided attempts at humour when everyone else just wanted to have their moments of grief. I victoriously thrusted my index finger down to “Enter” with firmness and finality. I knew I would never have to type, to think, to inhabit such feelings again.
“Maybe I was wrong….” it started.
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