(no subject)
Sounds are just the epic fury of a god whose wrath has yet to be felt by man, but I felt it in the rumble and tumble of passing storm clouds that came quite unexpectedly in the twilight bringing with them the silver-gray mist of morning dew drops. The blades of grass each beckon to me to reach out and touch them-- they are alive outside and I am dead inside with the steady drone of the air conditioning window unit bursting out repetitive puffs of aged air for me to breathe. So I sit on the slab of a patio, half caved in, searching the grass for living things, or memories, or a semblance of a life half-lived. But all I get are insects creeping and crawling a thousand steps a second. They fall. They die. There, on their backs, the final kicks of six barbed legs desperate to find their footing. I take the embers of a half-lit cigarette and move it-- sadist that I am-- closer and closer to the writhing rythmic motion. And then, it screams.
Not a chirp-- not the sound of a cricket on a summer evening-- no, a clear and distinct scream metamorphisized from the larvae and the egg and the chrysalis, deep within. A voice of one of hundreds of thousands of members of one of thirty million species. The definition of minute-- of unrepresentable-- it screamed at me. And I leaned my ear closer to hear what it had to say.
Not a chirp-- not the sound of a cricket on a summer evening-- no, a clear and distinct scream metamorphisized from the larvae and the egg and the chrysalis, deep within. A voice of one of hundreds of thousands of members of one of thirty million species. The definition of minute-- of unrepresentable-- it screamed at me. And I leaned my ear closer to hear what it had to say.