This morning there was a dead cicada waiting for me at the front door. It disturbed me greatly. The creepy, prehistoric thing. Its eyes bright and red and seeing nothing. And I tried to imagine what it’s like to be a bug. To sleep underground for eighteen years. To wake one night and push yourself into a hot summer night. Your life’s purpose to mate and to be the thing birds most like to eat.
I sit in this dark room staring at a glowing screen and pretend to be connected to the world. Facebook and Twitter and Google+. Cell phones and iPads and Androids. All these ways to communicate, yet we don’t communicate. Before caller ID we would answer the phone when it rang.
If I could speak to you, I suppose I would say that I’m sorry it’s come to this. That I’m sorry it always comes to this. But I remember now what you do, every word you use untrue, and I can hardly blame you. You are my muse, my white goddess. You will destroy me as surely as I will destroy you. This destructive art of creation.
The moon is bright tonight. The birds sleep lightly in the heavy trees and the cicadas scream all night listening for sex. At first light they’ll wake, they’ll sing and eat, drink and fly. The cicadas will still be screaming for they have no time to waste. And I’ll turn to this glowing screen, post a status update, go back to sleep.