Flavor

I sometimes find it helpful just to write, and maybe I can help you too—to see the world as I do, to peer past your eyes and through mine. Maybe you'll find that we aren't so different when it comes down to brass tacks. Make of it what you will, but the rancid zephyr that blows from an air conditioner may seem a fresh breath by the end of my writing. Each day I rise from these linens, and from them I move across the world in a stupor, divided by the physical and the metaphysical. The sight of the lives around me, from the singular to the great and many hives of chitinous workers that roam the yard—these small, minute beings wandering upon this earth in much too beautiful a way for us to fully realize or even comprehend. Each ant is never seen as its individual self, despite the fact that they very much are their own person in much the same right as you or I. Each legged beast, even those with naught a leg in sight, shows us often-too-human emotional responses—the preferences that we think separate us from the simple beasts that roam alongside us. When I look with my eyes, I see a blur of color and flashes of light, but what they all mean does not come from what we see. What we know and what we see are both subjugated to our hearts, our minds held deep within our chests, beating and pulsing not with the flow of hemoglobin but with the flow of raw, unbridled emotion—pent up and explosive yet contained in the fine, small tubes we are composed of.