Actually, sending a text doesn’t cut it

But it’s so much faster to text.

It is. And I do.

Obviously, I should end this column right now. I’ve said what I think you need to know, yes?

In a text I control the message. And what did I say?

That it’s faster to text. And I’m right. Respond however you want. A wordless thumbs up will do.

A text says: I don’t really care what you think. Because a text is not a conversation. It says But I care about you; that’s why I texted you. You can take that to the bank. Just not really.

Laugh emoji.

*** *** ***

Well, that was some spurious logic. Of course, there is nothing inherently wrong in texting. I text all the time. It gets to the who, what, when and where right quick. And who doesn’t want direct, immediate and satisfying results from our efforts at living?

Texting comes close. It discloses data. But it is, in fact, not a conversation.

It can be a one-sided game, a benign communication drone strike — guided, but distant, intent on a mission. And just as much as the strongest link in the chain that it shatters is the single voice that says no, a text dictates unspoken terms: I have texted you. That is

all.

This genie will not be rubbed. This eight ball is on a pool break. Conjurors abjure.

A text is a secure moat around the inner sanctum of a real conversation.

Which is sad. Because words are luscious. And they are best said faceto-face.

When was the last time you kissed your partner, your child, your pet or whom/whatever else it is you kiss and did not tell them something — the words in your mouth, the timbre of your voice to their ear?

“Sweet dreams, darling.” “Call me when you get there.” “What a handsome good boy!”

Or “I love you.”

I love you. Such imprecise yet precious currency.

The meaning of those words refracts like a prism. You don’t necessarily know where to look or how to trust the luster of what you see. But that luster!

And next to a real, face-toface conversation, COVID gave us a decent second-runner-up — Zoom and its ilk. Complain if you want, but on these platforms you can still see laugh lines on a person’s face. You can see them talk with their hands. And if there are tears, you can see those, too.

But a text slows, stills or silences conversation so that even a blithe I love you is an endpoint, a full stop. Unspoken (untexted) is the subtext I don’t have time enough — or maybe desire enough — to actually listen to your actual voice.

And that’s where the alligators swim in the moat, transmitting a meta-message: This way danger lies. Don’t come too close. I have given you all that I want to give of me. I have checked the box that says I paid attention. You can always sweeten that obligatory legalism with a flower emoji if you want. But rest assured, you did your duty. You shall brook no complaining: But we never talk anymore.

I pray to all that is immeasurably sacred that you have had face-to-face moments similar to the evanescent and numinous moments that I have had. And that I — thanks to all that is immeasurably sacred — still do have.

For that to happen you have to — for the most part, at least — show up. You have to use your words as words, not only as data-disclosing drones.

Invite the friend over. Get on the Zoom call. Read a story to your kid. Tell your partner a joke.

Your smiling face is protean, your voice resonant. And not even the best emoji can crinkle up its nose with your laughter.