Connected

Your phone won't take the photo you want it to take and then deletes the one you did. It teases and rebels right there in the palm of your hand. The frustration of that is, in part, the phone, but you know that emotions have a way of sending down deep roots into the still teeming, hot, glowing lava of unfinished business with your unhealed wounds. That's a hard one to admit, you have to admit. But the times you walked away to end it didn't end it. Rather you pushed it down into some deeper soil of the psyche. "The past is never dead," wrote one Mr. Faulkner. "It isn't even past." So when the kitchen gets too hot, and the molten emotions bubble to the surface because your phone is a miscreant agent of electron evil, remember that the real demons snapping at your heels are the ones than never healed. The news you don't want to hear is that you have to turn and face them. That, or forfeit the freedom that comes only from knowing you did what you had to do. A phone, then, will be just a phone, and you start to get the joke.