Junk Mail
I’ve been getting a lot of it lately. Perhaps it deserves a second thought.
Yunior Rivas
It’s a puzzling place, a tiny portal where the world reaches out to you by name.
Most days, it’s filled with things you didn’t ask for, offers promising more than they’ll deliver, coupons for thing you never cared for, glossy menus from places you’ve yet to give a chance. At first glance, it’s all disposable, destined for the recycling bin without a second thought.
But maybe there’s something to them. These small slips of somethings are echoes of movement, of minds and machinery. They’re relics of a peculiar intimacy. One that knows where you sit still long enough to be reached. They find you, not out of love or care, but as proof you belong as part of a system, for better or worse. Your existence oddly affirmed by algorithms that speak your name.
Each piece is an offering, however impersonal, demanding you make a choice. Standing over a bin, you sift through the noise, deciding what deserves a moment of your time and what disappears into the void. It's an act both mundane and monumental, mirroring the way we move through life itself, deciding what to hold close and what to let slip through our fingers
Ultimately, they arrive because you exist. Each a subtle acknowledgment of your place in this intricate web of reality. A reminder, as mundane as it may seem, that you are noticed.
In this ritual of sorting and sifting, the impersonal suddenly becomes strangely intimate. Even the most fleeting slip carries with it a faint hum of living.