Insecta

The white terrifies me; the sanctity of the first page is powerful.  It stands before me now like a veil that I am now blotching black. And black. And black.  

I am a slow writer, by all measures.   I reread and rewrite with maddening frequency and finally, after all has been said, toss my work away like a discarded exoskeleton.  I've crawled out of it, emerged from it -- why should I return?

This blog will be about my thoughts on different things, not political, not controversial, merely things.  It will be a silt-filled torrent where my other work may be more accurately described as a pristine spring.  I want this whitespace here, to talk to myself, and to talk to you.  So that's what I'll try to do, for at least 15 minutes a day.  If I'm away from the computer, I'll write it down in a notebook, and then update it here later.

Maybe I'll describe the day's events in a sort of bland narrative, or maybe I'll describe a scene I just imagine.  I am a bit fond of stories -- I'll try one now.  

You feel yourself waking to the smell of damp earth and the gentle nudging of a ladybug.   You open your eyes slowly, then squint as the sun makes his "good morning."  The ladybug is walking along your palm; her tiny legs tickle your skin.  Sitting up is hard, but you manage just as you have every other day of your life.  You flex your neck and let loose a glorious roar.  

Sit up, sun warms your face.  He is higher than he should be -- you've overslept.  Maybe this time it will be okay, no-where to go, nothing to do.  Maybe this time, it is a blessing that you are no-one.  Because in being no-one, you are everyone.  Like the worker ant or the single ladybug -- each insignificant, each integral to the circus of life.  You are the steel girders that support the trapeze artists.  Unglamorous? Certainly, but essential.  

Now you are more powerful than anyone, you, in innocuous ubiquity.  Your situation is more glorious than any hero's because without you, there would be no land to save, no kingdom to conquer.  The mindless drones of the bee-hives, I wonder what you think while you are still alive.  I wonder where you will go, with you furious, but fickle flame.  

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So not really a story I know, but I did say this would be a silt-filled river.  I won't edit what I write here, this will be pure, raw thought.  Thanks for joining me, and I hope there will be more to come.