1842: So, the good news is that my counterpart, whom I have been sketching, does not reside among my social media friends—a fact that I find somewhat amusing. Whether this is truly good news is debatable, but another piece of news is that the individual who causes my heart to flutter or manifest a peculiar anomaly remains elusive. I am not allowed to post my sketches or share the data of this study, as the matter must be handled with utmost care. Should any moment trigger my catatonia, I have medication on standby. It is my heart that bears the brunt of this condition, as the "catatonia" constricts its vessels before releasing its grip and flattening the EKG, akin to the reverse function of a pacemaker—a pace stopper, if you will. This form of treatment is still under development, but it holds promise for those suffering from post-traumatic stress disorders, work-related stress, and even behavioral effects leading to seizures. Interestingly, my current diet, which I followed based on an intuitive feeling, addresses this condition. This is a testament to the body's innate wisdom, guiding one’s choices even in the absence of conscious knowledge. Such are the paradoxes of life, where the heart and mind intertwine in a delicate dance, balancing on the edge of reason and instinct.
1827: I receive peculiar messages asking if I might marry them for benefits. I dearly hope it’s not another military member, for it’s quite odd to ask such a thing, especially from an account with a generic name, as if it were created merely to send a single, disposable message and await my response. I’ve pondered this scenario before, yet it would prove challenging if the individual were a colleague. I do know of couples who have successfully navigated such waters, maintaining professionalism in the workplace while jesting and bantering when they meet, addressing each other with the endearing formality of "Sir" and "Ma'am." This arrangement seems workable, given they’re separated by departments and different floors. In these times, particularly within the Space Force, finding someone of my grade is difficult; more challenging still is finding someone who doesn’t mind that I am, metaphorically speaking, as old as Methuselah. Though I jest—I am but 42, though I look to be in my late twenties if I don a foolish hat. Nevertheless, I refrained from answering this query, as I know not who you are or what your true intentions might be. Thus, my response remains a firm "no," for now.
0423: In an unexpected twist of fate, I found myself aiding as a volunteer at the precinct that had detained me overnight due to mistaken identity. It was the very night I faced a biochemistry final during my nursing studies in Manhattan. This endeavor seemed quite out of character for me, but as part of a chain of custody of evidence, my art from a medical illustration class had been presented to them. After enduring what felt like an eternity of fingerprinting, I found myself sketching profiles of people as described by the officers. The usual artist had retired, leaving this low-threat but intricate task in my hands. They assigned me various duties, and through this, I gleaned much about their processes. The nearby school, bearing a Saint’s name akin to mine, was the detective's alma mater. The detective almost convinced me to pursue a career in law enforcement after I confessed that nursing did not seem to suit me. My empathetic nature rendered me too sensitive to work closely with patients, yet this role allowed me to contribute in a different capacity. It seemed a way to engage with people without direct interaction. However, in today’s world, there are few roles that don't demand some level of interaction, even if conducted remotely. Thus, I navigated these newfound responsibilities, pondering the paths yet to unfold.
0253: I have walked among leaders who, to maintain their grasp on future decisions, would obfuscate the truth. Yet, when words such as "uncomfortable," "stalk," "disrupting," and other derogatory terms are unjustly applied to one's character, a line is crossed. It is akin to a snapped chalk line upon which I might skid to correct. I have encountered this before, a method known as "name bombing," once a tool in the supervisory arsenal. I have always eschewed this practice for its inherent dishonesty. Such actions breed a divided workplace where one's validity is incessantly questioned by those they are meant to lead. It paints a picture of a leader acting not out of genuine conviction but rather under the supposed endorsement or opposition of higher authority. The reason I bring this up is that my colleague recently unearthed several conversations in which my name was mentioned. Though I vowed never to bring such matters to light publicly, it remains part of a flagged record of action within certain three- or four-letter agencies. For my peace of mind, my colleague did not divulge the names involved, lest it provoke an episode. This discretion is a small mercy, a bulwark against the potential discord such revelations could unleash.
0145: The people I associate with may never know that I possess a memory keenly attuned to keeping count of one's actions. I remain acquaintances with those who never repay me or who extend invitations that never materialize. I also recall instances of deceit, or when words are twisted, only to discover the truth when I speak directly to the supposed source. These wrongdoings I balance on an opposing scale, and if the good outweighs the bad, they remain my associates. I have never used my memory to harbor grudges, even during times of illness. My colleague remarked upon this, noting that I innately calculate from the data presented to me. Active mathematical engagement seems to tax my mind, as evidenced by readings from yesterday's outing. I maintained an even keel, except for the moment I misplaced my car, which I eventually found by retracing my steps. I was on the opposite side of where I needed to be, as if navigating a plotted grid, requiring me to head at a 45-degree angle from southwest to northeast. "On your left," as the volunteer guided me, "by your side." This innate ability to calculate, remember, and forgive underscores my interactions, reflecting a balance of memory and mercy, where the scales tip towards benevolence despite life's complexities.
0129: "Your friend is gorgeous," remarked my colleague as I shared a photograph, hastily clarifying that she was not the one I often sketch. Let us call her Page, for simplicity’s sake, the friend who, more often than not, would invite me somewhere and then forget. My colleague, puzzled, asked why I even bothered. It became clear that I frequently placed myself in situations where I persisted, merely to stand by someone’s side, especially those I sensed were enduring rough times. There was the solo drive to Larkspur for the Renaissance Festival, an event Page had "forgotten" was that day, much like her request for a ride from Denver airport, only to reveal she had an earlier flight. Then there was the computer we never built—over a year in the making—at the Microcenter, my favorite store, reminiscent of what Fry's once was in California. Page perceived me as steadfast, never faltering in my words, always present when needed. What struck me deeply was that these activities she invited me to were things Marina would have cherished. However, I don't believe Page ever conversed with Marina, as there's hardly anyone with whom I truly shared that chapter of my life. The intersections of these forgotten plans and my enduring patience felt like echoes of a past known only to me, a testament to the silent burdens I carried and the unwavering loyalty I offered, even when left alone in my endeavors.
0038: "Do you wish to behold the super moon tonight?" came the inquiry, and it stirred within me a memory of the previous year when I embarked on a solitary hike amidst eerie howls and mysterious sounds echoing through the wilderness. The creatures of the night seemed undisturbed by my presence, as if we were all united in our desire to gaze upon the celestial spectacle above. During our conversation, Page expressed a wish to meet my colleagues or friends, saying, "Oh, I'd like to meet them." Yet, at some point, a metallic sound intruded upon our dialogue, causing the words to blur and leaving me unable to recall the thread of our discourse. When my focus returned, I noticed her eyes glistening with unshed tears, one of which she swiftly wiped away. I fervently hoped I hadn't spoken of Marina or my hospitalization. She concluded with a heartfelt wish, "I hope you find her again," and assured me, "you'll make someone really happy one day." As I emerged from the fog of my mind, I wanted to ask what we had discussed but sensed she needed solitude for the remainder of the night. Nothing of note occurred afterward, save for the peculiar sensation of a gap in our evening's events. Returning home, I found my lights still burning, and my security system signaling its need for attention.
