1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 8, 10, second part of 11, 13. And a bunch of other objects, once gifts from me to the sender -- or little things of mine with no value at all.
6, 7, 9, first part of 11, 12.
What kind of head-trip is this anyway? It's baffling. It's my things and the sender's things, not clearly one or the other, in these expensive-to-send boxes full of pathetic, unwanted objects.
I suppose I'm meant to feel erased? Whatever comfort he can find for himself is good. Or perhaps I'm meant to feel grateful that he went to the trouble and expense to send the things after I asked him not to? I don't feel at all grateful. It seems so ungrateful to the universe for the rare gift of love and intimacy it once bestowed on us to now return the symbols of our romance. I find all this endless box-sending, frankly, inexplicable in motive, materialistic and, really, quite sad.
Life is, after all, simultaneously so long, so short, so rich, so painful. And all we have is today, and when today ends, only our memories, which are our treasures.
But I guess I'm a romantic...