temporary friends.

Certain objects, times, events, people sometimes though no as often, invade my writing. During these times they make their way into many more of my paragraphs than perhaps they otherwise would have a right to belong in. Lately it has been the green sheer of the blinds that cut me off from the world outside. They obscure my view and give a sullen sickly pallor to everything. I find sometimes when outside of this room I imagine the things I see in that same sick coating.

This evening is much the same but instead of concentrating on what is beyond those curtains; instead of what is just past that thin layered obstruction, my attention focuses on my side of the curtain. For the past few weeks of heat I have left my window partially open in order to encourage some sort of coolness to make its way into my room, suggesting a truce between myself and the outdoors. Some intermediary location where perhaps we can negotiate the terms of my release (and really I feel they are going well).

In the midst of this green sea a solitary lady bug perches. It clings to fabric and does not move except with the ebb and flow of the sheet itself in the summer night wind. The light bulb gives it a shadow that lengthens and shortens in its flapping vehicle and I cannot help but imagine it (in my montana and mexico dreams) as some insectoid cowboy riding against the violent buckings of fred meyer cheap sheets.

I can't imagine how it got there. Aside from the obvious open window anyway. This curtain must have looked like the most extraordinary bonanza of green leafery every contemplated and what utter disappoint that it is not nourishing at all. What potential for feast something to go back to the lady bug (again I have problems with multiples here) pack? colony? and be proud of something to bring back in conquest or shared love or consideration. But instead nothing.

What a long trip. It has been an hour since I have noticed it and aside from moving away from a gentle prodding of my finger it has not moved at all. Does it consider going back now a shame? Would it make up a story to save face? Struggled to get to a point where everything would seem good and once there, just to realize it was fake. Made up. The product of someone elses whimsy.

At some point I will fall asleep tonight and perhaps for once I will not wake up at 7am unable to return to sleep. When I wake up I imagine you will be gone. Neither of us knowing what happens to the other. Histories incomplete except the small conjectures we have no basis for.

Then again, you are a lady bug so really I suppose it will only be me wondering.