Wicked Woman

You surely have a boyfriend, and you were selfish enough to send the email without understanding what it would do to me. But in that same future where people will unwillingly draw closer to each other, because all their life's output will be public, and there will be no private work, no private writing, and you'll read this too - then we'll grow close again, despite having grown apart, and this time because the universe will contract

You have a new mail item (Source)

I can't believe you were so cruel as to send me an email while you have another. But how weak this argument is, proving there is no other. It hangs by a thread. Especially when I enter the site and see you haven't logged in. What could be the reason? You're not abroad. Here I see your Facebook. In other words, what happened, what's happening, is that the information transfers between unrelated processors are expanding. And there's nothing to protect me from the pain, in the lack of knowledge.

Once, if you weren't in contact with a woman, you wouldn't hear anything about her. Unless you listened to gossip. But I simply wouldn't hear about them, wouldn't know they got married. I wouldn't see the wedding photos. Even if they went out, I knew nothing, unless I kept in touch with a traitorous friend of hers. Who didn't even know how much she was hurting me. Or a chance meeting with someone she knows. But for years I knew nothing. And the internet, just as it expanded the channels of information transfer between texts, also opened up people, and the day is near that is neither day nor night, and many springs have opened. Meaning that the roads between people will be so wide that they'll be as wide as the people themselves. The continuation of the loss of privacy is the loss of individuality, no lie of ignorance will protect you from unrequited love. The falsehood in disappointment will disappear, and there will only be mysterious love.

Because even true love is based on a lie, and if everything will be known, where will the lie be found? I know too much about her even though we're not in touch. I already know too much about the girls from the site before we've met. And the younger they are, the worse it is, their whole lives are there. Meaning from true love and lies we'll move to known and mysterious love. And if I knew you didn't have a boyfriend, I would try to get back to you, with all my might, but I can't take the risk that you have someone, and you'll tear my chest open, especially since it's been many days that you're not on the site, not searching. And it never was.

And every morning I log into the site in your place, every night, to check if you're there. Because if you're just there I'll feel much better, it's worth the effort for me. And each time it hurts a little, torture when you lie down and when you rise. And one day, I know, I'll still see your picture on Facebook, happy with another. And I won't even be able to hit him like what would happen if you were walking embraced on the street and ran into me. I mean, where would I hit him, I wouldn't want to kill him, and he'd probably hit me back, taller, stronger, and you'd be standing there screaming that I'm crazy. I hate you. You surely have a boyfriend, and you were selfish enough to send the email without understanding what it would do to me.

But in that same imaginary future, where people will unwillingly draw closer to each other, because all their life's output will be public, social, and will be valued only socially and not personally, there will be almost no private work, private writing, and you'll read this too, then we'll grow close again, despite having grown apart, because the universe will contract, the human sphere will collapse into itself, even if I run away from you to the other side of the world it will become the other side of the village. Then you'll know what you did to me. Whore. Sex will be the last thing to be shared, after all. People will report after sex how good it was so their friends will be jealous, or how bad, to extract reactions and raise awareness, because awareness will already be in the heavens.

And everything will be more conflicted than ever, because why do poets quarrel much more than novelists? Because it's much easier to write a poem than a novel. So imagine what will happen when everyone writes a line. How much I hate you. (How much, really? Exactly as much as I loved you. The self is not what creates the intensity of the feeling, but its direction. It's just a legend for the map, the arrow that shows where is up, and where is out. And where is in. Thus pleasure turns to pain. The moment you want me, all the hatred will turn to love, and that's why you're such a wicked woman.