Another Day Altogether
Matthew Ryan Fischer
My journal was a liar. It told stories written by someone who was
almost like me about someone who sometimes sounded a lot like me, but often was
not me and nothing like who I was then or who I was to become later.
Some might say my journal had a different perspective and that
perhaps I should reevaluate my memory and see if there was some balance that
could be struck. I would say to those people that they are liars or fools or
had been fooled, but in all cases, they had no reason to trust my journal over
me.
I can’t remember the first time my journal lied to me, but I know
it was my handwriting and it was a story very similar to a real-life story that
had occurred. But there were mistakes. Omissions. Truth, but differences.
Similar, but not the same.
Some might say that Past Me had written something down that was an
interpretation, or variation of the truth, a better version, something I would have
wanted to have happen or a way I’d choose to remember the past. But that wasn’t
it. If Past Me were protecting Future Me and trying to give Present Me a better
memory, then the story would have been better. Past Me would have embellished
in such a way that I got what I wanted, that I won, or achieved or had more fun
or something positive. But this was just a slightly different story. No better,
no worse. Just different.
What would be the point? Why would Past Me lie if there was
nothing to gain? No, this wasn’t Past Me trying to alter history, this was
something entirely different. That’s why I hypothesized that the journal itself
was changing things and lying to me.
What do you do with a son-of-a-bitch like that? A trickster. A jackal.
Trying to gaslight me into believing my life was different but just as boring?
What strange nefarious plot could it be up to? What to be gained and to what
end?
I began to keep a second journal. A secret journal. Not just to
repeat myself, but to categorize and analyze the changes that were being made.
The second would document not only what was, but what was being altered.
The problem first discovered was that as long as I was going day-by-day,
the journals matched. There were no changes. It was one for one. Almost as if
the original journal knew not to change itself what it was being tracked. It knew
I was watching it.
No, the new entries were staying the same. It was the past ones,
the ones I couldn’t verify, the ones from long ago, before I began the second journal
– those were the ones I suspected were being altered. Those were the ones that
told the story of a different man.
Who was this man? And why was he so similar to me? I dove in and
dedicated myself to rereading all entries to determine just who the alternate
version of myself was and what story my journal was trying to tell me.
The results were vexing.
This man, this other me – he lived such a plain and basic life. But
the stories were all told with such sincerity. I never found anything that
seemed embellished or misleadingly boastful. They were just the thoughts and tales
of a standard life. Just not exactly my own. As far as alternate lives go, this
was rather sad and disappointing if only because it was so average and ordinary.
The only thing I couldn’t quite resolve was the texture of the
paper and the bleed of the ink. I’ve always been quite particular with such things
and there was something every so slightly off. Which made me wonder if these
weren’t fake or lies, but that instead they weren’t mine. And if that were the
case, then where was my journal and who was reading about my life and judging
my ordinary existence? And what else could be out there with other
opportunities and options waiting?
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