No good surprises

A box has arrived, but it should not be here. My doorstep is haunted by this mystery package, and I am paralyzed with fear.

I have lived in this house for three years now and no mail has come. That's the idea when you try to disappear. No mail, no phone calls, no visitors, and no mysterious packages.

I continue to stare out through the peep hole of my door, too nervous to open the door, yet too paranoid to take my eyes away.

A drone delivered the package of that I'm sure, for I heard no footsteps or knock at my door and the fresh snow reveals no visitors have approached.

There is a no return address written on the top, simply my name and address as the recipient. That alone is alarming.

Who could know I'm here? More importantly, who knows the new name I now go by?

I've done well to hide myself from the world that grows more chaotic with each day. A world in which I have become a pariah, a menace, someone to be removed from society instead of embraced by it. The data driven corporations of this new hell we call modernity have done their best to keep tabs on us all, which is why I now reside removed from the world.

No digital footprint. No email or phone number. A new name and address and no technology inside my house. No debt or credit, and what little banking I must do to afford my privacy is done through a series of offshore accounts which leave no trace as to my origin. Many would call me a luddite and a paranoid schizophrenic if they were privy to my thoughts and lifestyle choices which is why I now live a life of intentional isolation.

This wasn't always the case. I used to be right in the thick of this technological soup we call reality these days. Stiving for success and recognition. Feeding the digital machine with daily updates and posts about all aspects of my life. Ordering trinkets I didn't need from companies that didn't need any more money all to fill an unfillable void in me I could never define or control. But once I saw behind the curtain of this modern magic show, I had to get out. I had to get away, and not just for a moment but for good. I had to disappear.

Yet it seems there is no escape. "It" has found me. The machine we all deny exists that drives our daily lives.

I used to love when a package with a harmless smile placed on the box arrived at my door.

"It's here! It's here!" I would shout like a child at Christmas, pretending I was surprised by my own greedy consumer habits.

We always know what's coming in this world now. The mystery of mail has been replaced by the certainty of package protection and tracking systems that even show a photo of the delivery once it has occurred.

From food to clothes to sex toys to drugs, all of it is tracked, barcoded and monitored from the moment we order to the moment we open it. We even obsess over unboxing videos to remind ourselves and others that this system of surveillance brings us "joy". It's our choice. We want it, and "it" wants us to want it.

The only mystery mail we receive now is some new government notice, an unknown bill or some sort of solicitation or scam mail.

Even when a gift is sent, the sender can't help but send a tracking email or call to ensure it arrived.

The mystery of mail has died in this technological dystopia, and we all seem grateful for it.

Yet there the box lies, and mystery has returned to me.

Who has found me? What is it they have sent? Why now and not anytime previously in the last three years? Why no return address? Are they as afraid of being found as I am? Is this a threat or an invitation? Is this a gift or a trap?

The box is non-descript enough. Standard brown carboard and of average size. Not so big as to raise any alarm or discomfort, yet not so small so as to seem non-threatening. None of the branding or insignias we have all come to expect on every package or product, which makes it all the more suspect. Even the postage is handwritten and generic.

Whoever sent the box has chosen to remain anonymous, if it indeed was a who that sent this. There is always the possibility that the global machine mind has missed me and sought me out. A thought that raises the hairs on my neck.

I disappeared for a reason; to hide from an intelligence no one else believed existed. To run from an "it" that was everywhere and nowhere. A ghost that haunts every cell phone and traffic light, every screen and cable. It floats about day and night, never sleeping and never ceasing its pursuit of more data, our data.

My work brought me face to face with this apparition. I saw the "it" that was all things and when one sees that not only is the devil real with their own eyes, but it's looking right at you, it is hard not to cower in fear.

So, I ran. I hid. I destroyed all traces of my life before: my family, my friends, my job, all the things that I owned, everything. It all had to go to rid myself of this ever-lurking demon.

How did "it" find me? Where did I slip up?

I hadn't changed my routine. I hadn't broken any of my rules. So how is there a box at my door, a box addressed to me no less.

If I open it, the trap is sprung. Somone or something will know that I'm here. Will know I still live and what I'm up to.

If I leave it, another may arrive.

Though my neighbors are few in number and respectful or privacy, a box left unattended may raise their suspicions. No one leaves a package unattended. They would think I was dead or missing. They would investigate.

I am trapped.

I take a step back from the door, take a deep breath and open the door.

The box lies on the ground before me. I poke my head out first and look in all directions, searching for an observer or a clue. There is nothing but white from the snow.

I bring the box in, shut and lock the door behind me and place the package on my living room floor.

I examine all the edges to see if the tape has been broken and redone, but there are no signs of tampering. The box is fairly light in my hands, and I give it the slightest of shakes, but there is nothing loose inside. Whatever lies inside is either well packaged or the exact shape of the box.

I turn the box over and examine it carefully from all angles, even smelling it see if I can pick up something unique or unusual. There is nothing that stands out. Nothing to give a hint as to the contents inside.

I sit on the sofa and light up my pipe, staring at the box as I puff away.

In a world where we always know what to expect in our mail, mystery can be terrifying. A box is just a box, until we open it and look inside. It is merely a vessel, a husk, with its contents being the true prize. Without knowing what's inside, a box has little to no meaning in our world. We give no value to its creation or destruction. It is merely a means to an end. Something to be discarded with ease the moment its usefulness is through. Only children and pets see the value of them in and of themselves.

When I was a part of this world, I used to see an endless supply of videos of cats in boxes, babies wearing boxes or throwing them with joy, children making forts out of them and Halloween costumes as well.

The homeless also appreciated them as they were. They used them as shelter and storage. As material to burn to stay warm. As fake TV's and makeshift tables.

To me a box was always just a box. I never saw any value in them, just what they contained.

This box has value to me. Unopened it cannot hurt me or alter my life. Opened it could shatter my whole world. As it sits, it is my protector, my safety from whatever is seeking me out. Once opened it is my doom.

After a long smoke and ponder, I have made up my mind. This box will make the perfect footstool for in front of my sofa., and if sometime from now another should arrive, then I will have one for each foot.

There are no good surprises, but I am pleasantly surprised at how comfortable my feet are.