My Inbox, Mine

Email is an albatross,
A constant weight about the necks of billions,
Bringing heads down dutifully,
To check it, forever –
Without ever a Sabbath, except maybe Christmas –
Email is a part of the daily human condition,
For most everyone now,
And it blows.

But maybe your inbox, like your life, differs from mine;
In my inbox, work communications are constant,
Fix this, and, what is the status of that?
And today, a notice from my web host of costly overages on my server,
And once, from an ex, an email about someone famous who OD’d, saying it reminded them of me – #whattheactualfuck –
But it’s mostly just meaningless interruptions from the meaningless data manipulations my work tasks me with,
And constant deadlines –
As if missing them will be the end of me:
I fucking loathe email. 

But maybe, like Mondays,
My problem with email is really just a reflection of my life –
Emails from Simon and Schuster being, of course, prefferable to emails from my current contacts, whom I work for, hourly,
Always via email –
And if it’s not email, it is Slack or Basecamp, which both ping me via email anyhow,
But I’m tired of being fucking pinged!
I am tired of my inbox being a receptacle for shit!
Things I care nothing for;
For I know damn-well, email could be different than this.

But until then,
Until I give the world better reason to email me than these bills,
I will check it, dutifully, constantly, loathingly –
But not forever. 

Email being, just one more aspect of the human condition my art is to deliver me from,
Email being, after all,
Just another choice:

Our helplessness, learned –
Our anxiety ours,
My inbox, mine.

post script:

And to Tarran:

A reply yet awaits,
Sitting neglected in my drafts for months,
Reminding me, painfully:
My inbox, mine.

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