A Leaf-Insect Gets Existential With Heavy-Handed Metaphors
By Emily Clouse
How long has it been since I last gazed upon mine own reflection? Has it been… not since… no; never like this. Never so deeply.
How long have I been both leaf and insect? Am I equal parts both? If I weren’t, what would be the difference, upon death?
What do others see? May I find comfort in the fact that all four — you, they, He and I — each see something different? Am I invisible to those who wish me harm, beautiful to those who wish me procreation? Am I, as an individual, eligible for either, or am I, as an individual, given nary a single thought, until I force myself upon someone, demanding to be recognized, insisting on existing, begging to matter? Even then, am I, as a species, worth Googling? Am I, as an individual, worth blogging?
I hardly want to admit it, but this door, though reflective, is also a window. If I try hard enough, I could surely see inside. What holds me back? Is this someone’s home? Where they eat, sleep, cry, lay eggs, laugh with friends, sit alone? What is “home”? Do I want to see what another’s life looks like out of empathy, or perversion? Do I want to compare a random sampling with my own to feel better, or worse? Does altruistic curiosity exist?
No; I am reflected, therefore I am, therefore I am imperfect, therefore I am perfect. I am leaving; I am insecting; I am woman, hear me rustle. I AM. EASILY. GOOGLED.
Don’t know if you really like your outfit? Your big will tell you, and man, will she be brutally honest.
It’s okay if you never call me back, because each first date is in itself a great learning experience.
You might never see them again. Who cares? Honestly, that’s kind of the fun in it.
This has long been a problem for me in my dating life, as I have a habit of attracting men of color. They think we’re on the same team.
By Nico Lang