I thought the dust mites were dust. I let them stay and build little homes on the keyboard. I thought they looked like characters I could write about. I fancied them fattened on air or flattened by a bludgeoning poke. I realised they were alive when the mount of Venus on my palm blushed; they were biting me slyly. A dust mite knows when it is being used.
I am finicky – even a bit panicky – about characters. What if they hold me guilty? What if they bite? What if they bark and howl and purr and yelp and ask for more? My orphaned thoughts may have nothing to offer. I dread them and yet obsess about those times when they are being formed out of skeletons. I chew the bones and imagine flesh.
The fantasy, and the joke, is on me.
I look under the bed. Every night. It isn’t fear. It is a habit. How did the habit start? Fear? I don’t know. It is interesting that what we exorcise become habits.
Last night, just before I was about to look under the bed, I decided to click a picture of it. The pinkish glow is nice on the grey-white. I can feel it undulating, like a wave.
It is the floor I walk on, but this portion remains hidden, safe from my plodding feet and prodding eyes. Okay, my eyes do look at it at night, but cursorily. Habits are not engineered for curiosity.
I wonder what it thinks of me and the bed. My bed is its roof. Does it feel suffocated? Does it get disturbed when I wake up at night? Does it listen to me when I talk on the phone? Does it wonder when I go silent? Is it afraid of the dark? Or of too much light?
When I look at it am I infringing on its privacy?
Isn’t that what we do to the very things we wish to hide and protect?
There is no voyeurism here. I want to touch that floor, maybe even go and sleep beneath the bed and become one with it.
I wake up and see the sun through a building being constructed...several houses, empty, penetrable, vulnerable. Wonder what will get created in them. Will they house dreams or are they mere placebos? I think about who will live here. Dream there. What will they wear? Cook? Do they like it ripe or raw? I zoom in with the camera and the sun hits me. It bleeds or feels like it is bleeding. Both, the sun and I...
I zoom in some more and see these little figures, stick-like, who are making these homes. They are the creators, silhouetted against the evening sky, surrounded by metal and standing on sawdust and bricks. I know they will not fall. This isn’t their dream, so they carry no burden.
I think about how the sky could fall and a bit of concrete bury them. And only then will a little bit of something be created.
And I think of you. The moment your eyes scan the page and the words burn your eyes and the ashes line the rim, you are blaming me. For killing the dust mites.