From K
In all my time thinking and thrushing, pulsing about, constantly clicking click after click after click, glancing down at that clear, minimized window – the notifications, the numerical increases pointing up to the fact that I, K., just received another piece of mail.
Amid my excitement came confusion where I asked myself, “Who is Josef Nmbago-R. and how did he get my email address,” digging deep into the back of my brain as I attempted to place my past social gatherings and wondering when the moment was that Josef and I crossed paths, shared that moment and exchanged email addresses as if they were cold handshakes with warm intentions.
Alas I could not place him, nor the online pharmacy that I must have visited, or the sexy brunette who said she had pictures for me, all friends from a world of which I was a stranger, unless I’ve been living an alternative life all along, one string, one octave, above or below everyone else, yet regardless of which world I truly lived in, my PC lived in their world while coexisting in mine.
To bring myself back to myself and whatever life is supposed to be lived for me, I post these dispatches from friends, most of whom are desperately trying to get in touch with me but of whom I cannot place a single face to the names, to the messages, to the cries of help. Yet, is it not rude not to reply?
Deep down a reality pierces at me that it’s possible that I don’t know these people at all – and they don’t know me, but they’re infiltrating my life, my thoughts, my communication apparatus that forces upon me this 100-pound weight of invisible consumerism, making me a voyeur at my own screen. Shall I open the message that isn’t truly for K.? Shall I allow the images to penetrate my virgin inbox? Do I break that invisible wall and click on what they ask me to click, knowing that once I click I may never go back again? The only solution to this dilemma of malicious messaging may be death – fast and painful, with a letter opener if the so-called God has any sense of irony. Without death, a life of these messages, these digital beggars awaits, and they must be embraced for fear that they will otherwise drive you insane.
If anyone can tell me where I am, you can reach me at k@letterstokafka.com. Everyone else seems to be able to.
