Go

go.

go away fly…i don’t want to kill you…i just want it to stop…the buzzing above my head…and it irritates certain nerves…i can feel them…beneath my skull…on top of my brain…right where the fly is buzzing…some primal tingle…and the fly sensing my agitation…buzzes louder…circles harder.

and so i eat peanuts. i shove them there in my mouth, the mouth that does not move to make words, because there is no one here to hear them. gutteral grunts, i make those, i go urgh, and ugh, i make those sorts of noises. i cough, and i sneeze, and i clear my throat, gutteral noises, nothing akin to logic, or syntax. no nouns or verbs, just the oh, and the uhm, and the wheezes, and the chewing of peanuts, and the buzzing of flies.

i eat peanuts, and i listen to the flies, and i miss no one. i miss my radio, and i miss music, occasionally i hum, very faintly, barely audible, but a low hum of some song i still remember, even after all of these years, here alone, with one fly or another, one bag of peanuts or another, and i sit, and i grunt, and i occasionally hiss at the fly, whatever fly it happens to be.

it is not the same fly, not the same fly on the wall, or buzzing about my head, no, but some sort of ancestor of this fly, something carrying down it’s genes, it’s manner of buzzing about my head: it has kept the same basic shape as it’s forefathers, and it buzzes about, and it annoys me the same-the same as it’s father did, or it’s mother or uncle, great-great-great-grandfather to the fly-they have all looked very similar, so much so that i cannot tel them apart, and i don’t bother too, because they all blend in, or move to fast to catch a good glimpse, here and then gone, just like their father and their father before them.

i eat peanuts and i grunt, and i eat, eat things, whatever is handy, or easy to shove in my face, and i eat mostly peanuts, and i sit there, and grunt, and i don’t think, and i just wait and i listen to the fly.

i chew slowly, and i watch. i watch things, keep my eye on the world around me, and i try to wonder about it all as little as possible, because i do not see the reason to question the reasons for why the things are the way they are, i just eat the peanuts, and grunt at nothing, and i stare at nothing, nothing in particular.

there are days, long long days, that just squeeze you madly, tightly with the beautiful simpleness of it all, sitting there, idly watching it all just go right by, as you chew the peanuts, and grunt and smile, something akin to a smile, something like that.

-jesus abraham correa vii from Iced Cream

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