A fly rushes over the top left of my peripherals. The arc is kind of
perfect and it reminds me of a negative of a shooting star t over
the whitewashed walls of my room.
The fly lands first
on a bottle of hair mousse, with some dried pro
duct coming out of the nozzle, and then over and onto the little tea kettle mug and back down onto the tops of the
carpet fibers. As it changes directions, suddenly a few more times, I notice that it
looks strikingly
similar to a kind of cinematic image that I had in my brain of a wide landscape and a horse run
ning against a sprawling desert but the sand is kind of unnaturally grey.
And the carpet fibers sway just a little bit upwards like octopus limbs and I look around the room and I sit with my toes pressed into my feet and I think about kissing. I think about the smell of cigarette smoke and the leafy burnt smell of autumn. I think about a million streetlights passing by a million littler fingerprints left all over th
e mud lining the infrequent blocks of mud and grass separati
ng only a few city blocks. All the different
color threads unravel just a little, they get loose and wavy and sway in the carpet.
I just smoke and think about how shamefully inconsequential all of it really was.
Posted on August 23, 2011
0