Talk, Talk, Talk

I can remember sitting on the phone at night with friends. Cackling about the days’ events. A simpler time. A simpler life. Do you long for it? I do. Do you remember what it was like before your ear was attached to a computer?

I feel the need for more human contact lately. We’re such a cold society. Dating apps via the phone, swipe this way, pray they swipe the other. Will I get the call? Will that job be mine? It’s all too fast these days. Too easy to say no to someone, or to say yes without really having meant it. There’s no thought process given to our answers anymore. So, that yes texted too quickly, means we may have to come up with an excuse as to why we can’t make it.

I don’t do that. I don’t play those games. If I call you, I want to chat. I want to hear about the news in your life. I hope you want to know mine.

When I’m talking to someone I’m not worrying about their plan minutes. Damn it, you should have all that figured out before you’ve picked up that call. We’ve become so attached to our little machines, that we can’t do anything without thinking about our mind numbing little security blankets.

They’ve invaded the way we tell time. Your kids are screaming while you check to see if you got a text before you see what they need. Parenting isn’t evolving. It’s just become more cold. Is there an app for that? Word for parents. Double score using the word love. Triple score of you can use it in a relevant sentence.

I long for the days when we’d run to see who was on the phone because to get a call was something special. Usually a grandparent checking on how we all were. Or to make plans for a free weekend. I wouldn’t call it innocence, I’d call it owning the times within which we live.

We do that now. It’s just that they’ve become timus interruptus machines. We all sit in a room not talking. Check email, FB, Twitter, Instagram, Instastories, FB Live, Snapchat (not so much), Tinder, Grindr, and all other timesuck apps that take us away from the one thing we need. Each other.

We text each other to come over so we can sit and not talk about what it was we forgot we wanted to chat about in the first place.

Do you need to talk? I’m here for you. If you need me, just buzz me.

All bullshit phrases these days. In translation, just text me and maybe I’ll get back to you because your time is obviously more important than mine to actually pick up the phone.

Well, fuck that. I am here. I DO listen. And I actually pick up the phone. I give what I want in return.

I don’t understand the cold connections of the heart these days. Was I born too soon? Too late? In the wrong century? I long for letters written in cursive writing and the ones that still smell of real ink.

I can remember my first Montblanc pen. Which means there was more than one. I treasured them like I did a gift that for a special occasion. I signed important papers with them. Cards and important checks.

Come to think of it though, I never wrote a love letter with one. Times evolved too quickly.

Damn. I never wrote a love letter with my Montblanc pen. $500 later I rarely take out my baby. It sleeps in its case. And I’m writing this blog on my phone. Not in longhand. Suddenly a rush of shame comes over me. I’m who I write about.

I gotta go return a call. Text me later?

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