It’s too easy now. I think that’s the problem. Everything shows up in a box.
Two clicks and a voice command and something new is en route. Could be a can opener, could be a flamethrower. You don’t have to know how it’s made. You don’t have to know who made it. You don’t even have to remember ordering it. You just have to open the door when it arrives.
The cardboard is always the same. Folded, scored, sealed in temple glue. There's a smell. A dry honesty. Sometimes the wind lifts the flaps like it's breathing. Sometimes I leave the boxes out overnight just to see if they change.
And yes, I’ve tried to quit. But the box arrives anyway. For my birthday. For my comfort. For my continued survival under optimal conditions. I didn’t ask for a smart thermostat. I didn’t ask for a box of disposable dental picks. I didn’t ask for half the things that show up, and I’m the one who ordered them. That’s the system. It wants you to be surprised by yourself.
The splinter came the second week. Not in my skin, but behind it. A slow split. Part of me wanted to know where it all came from. Who paid the price so I could scroll through a drop-down menu of ergonomic slippers. And the other part, the worse part - didn’t. That part just wanted the slippers. I gave him the tracking number. He gave me silence.
People talk about the future like it's a destination. Something we walk into with open hands and clear conscience. But I think it’s more like a warehouse. Fluorescent, infinite, faint smell of bleach. Someone else is always on break. Your cart is already full.
This is not a stand against anything. I’m not anti-progress. I’m not renouncing the grid. I just don’t trust what I’ve become when I hold the box cutter. I used to make things. Now I unbox them.
There’s a line somewhere between convenience and rot. I can’t see it. But I know it’s cardboard.
How many packages arrived at your door this month?