Today’s rant was a piece of philosophical nonsense that had snuck its way into a story I was writing. I was about to erase it into the ether of the delete key when I decided that it sounded slightly poetic. Rather than delete I should post it as a sappy poem here instead. But the question remains.
On a good day the sun is shining through the kitchen blinds like a zebra in the air, and the dust motes dance in the stripes like tiny creatures swimming in a microscope. I watch the dust motes for hours sometimes, dazzled by their acrobatics. I follow one in my mind, dancing with it through the air, free from gravity and the momentous downward pull of life for just those frozen moments. I sit at the kitchen table and eat fruit loops with no milk, or maybe pop tarts with strawberry frosting, or if I’m feeling motivated waffles with grade B maple syrup oozing through the dimples. I stay in the kitchen longer than I should, watching the dust motes until the sun has risen high in the sky and illuminated the world. On these days I feel like I know what to expect.
On a bad day the sun is covered in clouds and fog and uncertainty, and I can’t see the dust motes in the kitchen. I know they are there, but not being able to see them makes me uneasy, unable to relax or even get hungry for breakfast. Sometimes when the sun is hiding I hide too. I go back to bed and pull the covers over my head, staying there the whole day if necessary, if the sun never comes out from behind the clouds. On a bad day all I want is to wait for the next day, hoping it will be good again.