923

923 has been waiting for a very long time.  It remembers fondly the days long ago when it was stuffed almost every day.  Sometimes the door barely closed.  People don’t understand, just because something is made of metal or plastic or wood, they don’t think it feels or knows what’s going on.  The moment it is made it gets a soul.  It comes alive.  Not alive like people, but alive as a thing.  We are real.  Of course, we don’t breathe or sneeze, but that doesn’t mean we’re not in here. 

The minute I became 923, I became real.  But lately I no longer serve a purpose.  I don’t know if it is the cost of postage or if people have just gotten too busy, but something happened. I just feel so empty.  Even the voices that once filled the back room have dwindled down to a few.  There is no laughter, no complaining about heavy catalogs, or moronic supervisors, nothing.  It’s just all very quiet now.