This is actually my first post but I didn't know how to post it... so here it is (again).
~Technologically Deficient Forever
Logan’s Ledger on Life
(Entry One)
Logan’s just one of four names. That’s intentional. Anonymity is armor. In my profession, writers aren't always welcome—especially if they wander outside the creed. Preach the creed or bleed. No one says it out loud. They don’t have to.
But there’s freedom in Heaven. Freedom in the red letters. Freedom in relationships untangled from religion. I picture it like two lovers seated at a round table—one begins a sentence, the other finishes it without blinking. That kind of connection doesn’t whisper. It is palpable. And everyone in the room knows something holy is happening.
I had a voice once. Facebook buried it. Smothered it with shadows and silence. But a writer doesn’t stop writing—any more than a pointer can stop pointing. It’s not a choice. It’s breeding. DNA. And if all I ever reach is an audience of one… I’ll still bleed onto the page.
Writing for yourself is lonely business. Even for lone wolves. And this lone wolf? I’m not hunting fame. Sure, I’d bask in it for thirty seconds—maybe thirty daze. But I love my time. My thoughts. My Lord. I love the quiet. I love living alone. And if it comes to it, I’ll love dying alone. Loneliness becomes your fiercest friend after enough knives find your back.
Some days I forget what I was saying. Ironic, right? Got a genetic report in the mail—says I’m prone to Alzheimer’s. Makes sense. I was born forgetful. Now it’s clinical.
I know believers who would say, “I bind that in Jesus’ Name.” But they’ve said the same thing over thirty other people. And those thirty people still suffered. Still died. Sometimes binding isn't what God does—sometimes He breaks. And even that is mercy.
So I’ll keep it short. Thank you, Matt. Thank you, Write.as. For building a digital refuge for voices that don’t belong. Maybe this platform chose you as much as you chose it.
And thank you, reader—if you exist. I don’t know what I want from you. To entertain? To expose? To exhale?
Maybe just this:
To write.
Because writers point—
and pointers write..
Even when the sentence limps like those above.
Even when the page bleeds like those to follow.
Even when no one claps like the sound of silence now.
We write.
Because silence…
was never the end.
It was just
the inhale.