The Slug

I sat there for over an hour just staring at the screen, or three hundred and seven thousand weightless pixels. Imagine that, I was weighing up weightlessness. (It’s a hell of a lot harder than it sounds…) As I stared fruitlessly at the monitor, contemplating the fate of yet another dying minute, it smothered me like a ton of bones, a load of bleached, human bone tumbling down upon me at the pace of a fading day, slower than that even; measured, like the pace of this massive, evolutionary slug that edged along our back porch sucking up all kinds of shit along its way. Slug! That was it. That was what I was to write about. A miserable, ugly, slimy, seemingly useless slug. It’s not like a slug is going to give a rat’s ass what my blog post is about anyway, right? I mean he’s got more pressing things to tend to than some halfcocked poet with writer’s block; he’s got shit to gather, filth to collect, inches to go. I imagine if my wife had been there she’d have begged me put it out of its misery. To which I’d probably have replied, “You mean out of our misery, right?”

I’m tired. Tired of our killing things because we find them unsightly, or alien, or darker… Wouldn’t it be better if we were to look the other way and wrangle with our own unsightly sliminess? I’m so drained. So goddamned drained of all the fear and ignorance and hate that bring men to kill the best of things and wallow in the least. Sick and tired at the ease with which we’ll turn our back on our heads for absurd profit and frivolous pacification of useless, greedy goddamned habits. I’m physically and mentally fatigued by man’s sluggishness, by his failings, by my own shortcomings. Mine.

All this from a miserable, ugly, slimy slug edging along the porch. Today, and I regretfully imagine tomorrow, man will not have traveled as far.


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