In a second, I will be a mildly different person as one of these time-slices catches my fancy and tomorrow, I will be an as yet familiar yet unfamiliar entity, as certain images fade into the blacks of the corner, and others were lost overnight while I slept. Right now, I am the culmination of this unseen number of exposures, of unique smells, sights, and sounds that bounce off the walls of my skull in a comforting cacophony of experiences. Unconsciously, I collect the images and wrap them in elaborate bindings in the overflowing file room of my brain and laugh off the inadvertent shuffling of images from book to book at random times. Each snapshot is irreplaceable, because nothing is or can ever be the same. As time passes, the pictures flip and flow faster, the frames knit together, and I move through life.
I picture my life as a moving series of stop-action photos. At that point, I just usually kill them, which is why they don’t like me, because they’re probably just trying to be friendly or communicate with me, and I don’t like them, because they’ve freaked me out.ĥ. Even though I don’t like bugs, they don’t really bother me much until they fall out of nowhere when I am cooking, crawl onto my leg as a horde, or fall out of a tree and onto my shoulder with a meaty thud before beginning to skitter around inscrutably. Sure, there are good bugs, and everything occupies a well-placed niche, like gears in a watch, but their flat dead eyes, exoskeletons, unnatural movements and unknowable motivations bother me. I’ve been chased by flying beetles at gas stations, gnawed upon by hordes of ravenous mosquitoes in forests, and stalked by foot sized spiders in jungles. I don’t like insects and insects don’t like me.
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