The Ants Are Getting Closer
I am not an ant. Do you know that feeling? You probably know the one.The one where you remember an instance - that horrible moment, yeah that one, the one you’re thinking of right now, the one that makes you cringe with embarrassment, fear, or just sheer awkwardness. The one that you shove out of your mind but it immediately scales your spine up the cervical vertebrae and pulses smugly for a while just above the nape of your neck. You struggle a bit more, but then you stop and think, think the thoughts that have been thought with each sycophantic memory that lodges itself neatly in the cerebral cortex: was that the moment? A bell tolls. It was definitely a moment, but was that the moment? It probably was. You probably screwed up your life at that moment. That little notion throbs a little harder. No, definitely. That was almost certainly a momentous occasion in your life and you screwed it up.That belief begins to thud around your head.Well, I might as well just give up now, you will tell yourself: that’s it, it’s the end. A stampede of conviction gallops. You will probably have to hide. Or maybe that’s just me? I swear the ants are getting closer, but maybe that’s just a matter of perception. I look at them from above as one can only ever look at ants. One cannot get involved, down on the ground, with ants; they’re tricky customers. Two tolls.They interrupt my monotonous tapping of the typewriter, the very one that I almost dropped while carrying it up all those three hundred and thirty- four steps. The reverberations shake through the foundations of wall of bone and brain. What was I saying? Ants. I feel sorry for all those little ants. They carry everything and yet it weighs so
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