There's a virus in my email.
I don't have a virus on my computer, but everyday in my inbox I discover anywhere between 15 - 30 emails from people I don't know. Emails automatically generated from infected computers all over the world, complete with attachments that, were I to open them, would unleash a worm that would cripple my system.
Essentially, strangers are
coughing on me electronically.
Unfortunately, The sheer size of all these attachments is enough to push my mail account over its storage limit almost daily. It's a simple process to delete the messages and rid myself of the problem, but each day when my email account reaches a certain size, it kicks out anything that's sent to it, including any message addressed to me from people that I actually know.
...So in a way, the virus has me.
Of course, it's just like me to assume that people are sending me messages everyday and that the only possible explanation for me not getting them is some phantom influence that's clogging up the communication lines.
Maybe the virus is actually just something inside my head, an imbalance that makes me crave the contact, the attention, the effort. I mean, when it comes right down to it, there's no such thing as an absent friend. It's just a busy world. Power grids go down, new obstacles come up. I get that -- I mean, these are the same things that are keeping me from contacting the people that I care about.
This new job has turned my life upside down. My time, my energy levels, my focus, all inverted like negative exposures on film stock. Even when people do try to contact me, it's a roll of the dice as to whether I'll have the time or energy to reply back. No one likes to wave at someone who doesn't return the gesture, so the whole thing sorta snowballs.
I look in that mirror and it seems so shallow. It's like I need the validation, like I can't believe the reflection without a second opinion. Sometimes it feels like a hole inside, an emptiness, a separation. The kind of void you'd do just about anything to fill.
"Solitude is fine, but you need someone to tell you that solitude is fine."
-- Honoré de Balzac
I don't have a virus on my computer, but everyday in my inbox I discover anywhere between 15 - 30 emails from people I don't know. Emails automatically generated from infected computers all over the world, complete with attachments that, were I to open them, would unleash a worm that would cripple my system.
Essentially, strangers are
coughing on me electronically.
Unfortunately, The sheer size of all these attachments is enough to push my mail account over its storage limit almost daily. It's a simple process to delete the messages and rid myself of the problem, but each day when my email account reaches a certain size, it kicks out anything that's sent to it, including any message addressed to me from people that I actually know.
...So in a way, the virus has me.
Of course, it's just like me to assume that people are sending me messages everyday and that the only possible explanation for me not getting them is some phantom influence that's clogging up the communication lines.
Maybe the virus is actually just something inside my head, an imbalance that makes me crave the contact, the attention, the effort. I mean, when it comes right down to it, there's no such thing as an absent friend. It's just a busy world. Power grids go down, new obstacles come up. I get that -- I mean, these are the same things that are keeping me from contacting the people that I care about.
This new job has turned my life upside down. My time, my energy levels, my focus, all inverted like negative exposures on film stock. Even when people do try to contact me, it's a roll of the dice as to whether I'll have the time or energy to reply back. No one likes to wave at someone who doesn't return the gesture, so the whole thing sorta snowballs.
I look in that mirror and it seems so shallow. It's like I need the validation, like I can't believe the reflection without a second opinion. Sometimes it feels like a hole inside, an emptiness, a separation. The kind of void you'd do just about anything to fill.
-- Honoré de Balzac