The Practice Of The Chaos (2)
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You are sat in front of your computer when you feel a stroke against your back. Then a second. And a third. You turn round, a little bit stupefied to note the vigor of the animal that spin around. Its meticulous journey knocks itself successively in the sofa, the wall and your scapulas. Before the agitation of the beast do you grumble an imperceptible: "Yes, it is okay, and now you want me to bring you a bowl of food, don't you? ". While asking you at time what may well this type of living eat. And as the merry-go-round lasts, that you feel the weight of these knocks well against your shoulder, more that what you ever waited for a butterfly, you wonder if this one is of a mutant shape and mad.
It is too much. Very decided to put a stop to this cohabitation, you are armed again of the container and start a marathon to the course of the room. But it is necessary to believe that, in the species of mixed race, to give this one, there should be the bat. The eccentric is endowed with a die-hard sensitive sonar, or even extra-bug, to warn its possessor that you are to three meters (9.84 foot?). It is also necessary that it detains a little of a chameleon, to disappear instantaneously in a minuscule nook.
Yes in the beginning you curse. Two hours later the totality of your apartment is upside down and you consider exiling you at a friend's place, or lover or family. Three nights farther you regret the mosquito of this summer, and implore while inventing a bug-human language: "It is necessary that you leave. Let yourself push around, it is for your well being, I swear. You and me it is not possible anymore. Be reasonable."
To the dawn you cry.
You tried everything. Camouflage with ambush. The anger with broom in hand. The traps of light forming some tracings. All. There is always, as you close the eyes on the pillow, the unlikely noise of the wings that hits continually on the window, the walls, the window, the walls.
Since, you see the worried faces, that stretch themselves toward you, during an important meeting at work. You know well that your state of the moment doesn't permit many coherent sentences. And you don't have strength anymore to explain to your co-workers why the only thing that you succeed in articulating, shadows under the eyes, the dug cheeks, the pasty language, the empty look... is a litany:
“How long does live a moth?”
You are sat in front of your computer when you feel a stroke against your back. Then a second. And a third. You turn round, a little bit stupefied to note the vigor of the animal that spin around. Its meticulous journey knocks itself successively in the sofa, the wall and your scapulas. Before the agitation of the beast do you grumble an imperceptible: "Yes, it is okay, and now you want me to bring you a bowl of food, don't you? ". While asking you at time what may well this type of living eat. And as the merry-go-round lasts, that you feel the weight of these knocks well against your shoulder, more that what you ever waited for a butterfly, you wonder if this one is of a mutant shape and mad.
It is too much. Very decided to put a stop to this cohabitation, you are armed again of the container and start a marathon to the course of the room. But it is necessary to believe that, in the species of mixed race, to give this one, there should be the bat. The eccentric is endowed with a die-hard sensitive sonar, or even extra-bug, to warn its possessor that you are to three meters (9.84 foot?). It is also necessary that it detains a little of a chameleon, to disappear instantaneously in a minuscule nook.
Yes in the beginning you curse. Two hours later the totality of your apartment is upside down and you consider exiling you at a friend's place, or lover or family. Three nights farther you regret the mosquito of this summer, and implore while inventing a bug-human language: "It is necessary that you leave. Let yourself push around, it is for your well being, I swear. You and me it is not possible anymore. Be reasonable."
To the dawn you cry.
You tried everything. Camouflage with ambush. The anger with broom in hand. The traps of light forming some tracings. All. There is always, as you close the eyes on the pillow, the unlikely noise of the wings that hits continually on the window, the walls, the window, the walls.
Since, you see the worried faces, that stretch themselves toward you, during an important meeting at work. You know well that your state of the moment doesn't permit many coherent sentences. And you don't have strength anymore to explain to your co-workers why the only thing that you succeed in articulating, shadows under the eyes, the dug cheeks, the pasty language, the empty look... is a litany:
“How long does live a moth?”
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Created: May 2007
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The first time that you cross it you don't worry a long time. The second of a frown at most. It is necessary to say that its size is impressive for who achieves suddenly that there is "a thing" put on the wall. And your life never had until there, crossed the one of such a bug. Its body must measure close to seven centimeters (2.73 inch?) its width is tearjerking for all the mirrors of the macro world.
You don't have no idea of the species that well can want to list a similar horror, until this thing flies away to your approach. The so expanded wings take incredible extents but recognizable straightaway. A moth. Just a lepidopterous giant having chosen the gray color for evening's pajamas. Nothing that panics you therefore. You attend to what you have to do, while telling you that the animal will well end up finding the door open window.
The anecdote comes back to you solely some hours after, when the head laid on the pillow you close the eyes while already smiling to a deserved rest. It is the noise that revives the memory. The noise of the wings that knocks against the window, the wall, the window, the wall. The noise of a escape panic that ends systematically by a failure, a facial bruising.
In the beginning you sigh. Two sleep's cycles failures later, you get irritated. Three insults farther you run in vain with a container and a sheet of paper. To the dawn you cry. It is useless to wait, evidently, that those creepycrawly to show the tip of an antenna during the day. And well evidently also, in the evening, the wakening of all bulbs calls the one of that existence.
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