The morning was shot before it even began. The journal app wouldn’t sync, wouldn’t save, wouldn’t do the one thing it was built to do. An hour lost trying to fix it, three entries gone. Maybe I backed one up in a zip file. Maybe I didn’t. Another I had cleaned up and thrown onto the blog, so I guess that’s one less ghost. The rest—vanished. Technology failing at the simple task of keeping words where they belong.
Isn’t that just like life? Take something as pure as writing—pen to paper, a man alone with his thoughts—and drown it in sync issues, logins, platforms, cross-device compatibility. Make it easier, they say. Make it seamless. Make it so that a simple record of existence can be lost in a server error. And for what? A password-protected vault, as if anyone would ever care enough to steal these thoughts. As if a four-digit code could stop a real thief.
I didn’t write in the morning, so I’m writing now. That’s how it goes. The day chewed up and spit out, and here I am, picking at the scraps.
Spent an hour on the phone with Julie. A situation spiraling, the usual mess that never should have been a mess in the first place. The kind of thing that makes you wonder how people manage to dress themselves in the morning, let alone function in a world so bent on breaking apart. After that, I talked to Luna. She listened, or at least waited for her turn to speak, and then she told me something I wasn’t expecting.
She said I don’t write ordinary anymore. Said my words are shaped for an audience, but they should be for her.
It caught me. Hurt a little. Maybe more than a little.
I paused, like I always do, tried to fix it, tried to weave something smart and careful, but she wasn’t buying. I should have just said, You’re right. I should do better. Instead, we sat in the silence of things left unsaid, and when the call ended, there was no I love you. No warmth, no closing line. Just a cut to black.
I don’t say I love you if I don’t feel it, not just to fill space. Maybe that’s wrong. Maybe it doesn’t mean what people think it means. Maybe it means more when you don’t say it all the time. Or maybe I just don’t know how to be like the rest of them.
Tomorrow’s Friday. The weekend is the Super Bowl. Eagles vs. Chiefs. I bet a hundred on the Eagles +1.5 against my brother. I don’t care much for either team. The Eagles knocked out my Commanders. The Chiefs took out the Bills. It’s hard to root for anyone when all they’ve done is ruin what you wanted.
It rained all day. Made me feel sick. Stuck inside, restless. Drove one hundred and fifty miles. Maybe that’s far, maybe it’s not. Depends on who you ask.
Washed the day down with a Hazy IPA and liver and onions. Don’t judge. It was on the menu so I had to have it. Last time I ate liver and onions, I think I was ten.
I won’t watch the game anywhere special. That’s the part that gnaws at me. Watching alone doesn’t feel right, but I can’t bring myself to go anywhere. So I’ll sit in the quiet, watch in secret, let the world scream while I keep to myself.
And that’s the day. That’s how it all went.
hkb
BB Grey--musings 
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