mo(u)rning, pt. i

I like to think of the people I watch over as friends, but most of them don't know I exist. Most of them probably don't even believe someone like me could exist: a ghost in the grid, following them through their day, helping them out in the quiet ways they think are just luck or coincidence. Making sure the traffic lights work in their favor, tricking point of sale systems into giving them free things. And some things they'd never even notice: distracting cops, blanking surveillance footage. My own hidden surveillance was the cost they paid to make sure they were as invisible as possible. I try to respect their privacy as much as I can. No spying on private moments, which mostly means I stay out of their homes unless I have good reason to be in there. It means that, very rarely, I miss something, and I lose them altogether.

It's not hard to imagine how it happens. They ditch all their devices, find a route with minimal surveillance, move out of town--most of them have good reason to suspect they're being followed, and most of them know someone who could help them disappear. And I should be glad, since it usually means they've finally escaped the hell that is modern society, but every time it's happened I can't help but feel like I've lost a friend.

After the first time, I resolved myself to have a little ritual for next time. I'd go down to the neighborhood bar, where they know me and seem to like me despite how rarely I left home these days, and I'd treat myself to a decent meal and some drinks, flirt with the bartender, pretend, until the evening was done, that I was just a normal person with a normal life. It helps create some distance, which makes it so much easier to mourn, and in some small way it celebrates their lives, the fact that they got away. Because I do come to care about them, after watching for so long. I wouldn't be watching if I didn't wish them well.

Inevitably in the morning I wake up with a headache and a backlog of work to catch up on. There are so many people who don't quite fit in the world we've created, and if it's in my power to help them, I will. That, combined with the hangover, instills me with a clarity of purpose, so I've come to think of those rough mornings and hangover breakfasts as a part of the ritual. There is always more to be done.