Ma-na-ma

The conversation is just a vessel for me to verbalise my own thoughts, not to share. Other people’s existential horror means nothing to me. It’s just a story, something to agree with and understand on an intellectual level. The only horror that really matters is my own.

Most people tend to brush death off with tired and ignorant cliches, I sometime stumble upon the chance to converse with another terrified human. And it happens all over again.

Mail Me

Since Aaron and his girlfriend moved into his apartment nearly a year ago, it has almost felt like there were three of them. There is always some evidence of the third tenant lying around, normally in the recycling pile. His name is Gavin.

Gavin does not forward his mail.

Gavin also has not changed his address with companies who may be trying to reach him, companies whom he may also have worked for. He doesn't get his magazines. He will miss his next dentist appointment. His investments may be flourishing or floundering, but he doesn't know. He will not be able to transfer his balances at 0% interest. Instead, his mail keeps filling the mail bin. It's true that Gavin has more friends than the Schindlers, and judging by his mail, it's easy to see why.

Gavin is what you'd call a man's man (or, in the subculture, "wild at heart"). Or he at least wants to be. Gavin, is almost a self-parody, exhibiting the qualities of the stereotype to such a degree that you wonder if his life is genuine. He receives muscle magazines and motorcycle magazines. Hunting magazines also started making an appearance, as did water sports magazines. Today he received a cigar magazine, one that arrives with less frequency than his other hobby manifestations. We get a picture of Gavin, the Harley handler, the Deerslayer, the jack of all trades who is everything to everyone. It almost makes us look cooler because of our association, albeit in mail only, with Gavin.

I wonder what people would say about me if they saw the kind of mail I receive. Then again, I don't receive mail.