Bug Miles
The worst part about waking up is the memory. Or the dream. Or the bit where I cannot be sure
which is which anymore. So I have to ask myself which is the worst part, all over again, and my
answer to myself is: waking up.
Some days the song plays in my head. I try to avoid it. I avoid the dreams, too, though.
When you're dreaming with a broken heart, the waking up is the hardest part.
Yeah, man. You got it. Who or what hurt you?
'Cause she's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone.
I see. Me too.
I can walk miles in a day. I do walk them. Some days it is all I can do. One step after another. I
avoiding stepping on ant hills or grasshoppers. I spent so much time trying to save a life that I
cannot bear to take one, even unintentionally. I look. I wonder. I feel like I am three years old all
over again, lying in the dirt, watching the bugs crawl. And here I am, such a bug. Not so bad, I
guess. They probably walk miles in a day, too.
Bug miles. Some of the hardest miles to walk. They have no idea where or why they are. They
just are. They walk because there is nothing else for them to do. Eat. Walk. Eat. Walk. No sleep.
Maybe they rest once in a while. And when I wake up, I realize that I will never see that
particular June bug or dragonfly again. That is comforting and distressing at the same time. I
have no idea who or where I am. Sages suggest I have no need to. Bug miles.
Smoke. Walk. Sit in the grass. I recommend it. It's humbling.
You have no idea who you are until you consider who you never can be. Think about that for a
moment. You never can be a dragonfly, seeing multiple copies, all at once, of the same image,
because you were designed to hunt. Never. Ever. You never can be a deer in a forest, looking for
a nibble here and there. You never can be a dog on the floor, however much you might think
yourself to be a bum like him. You can wish, but it won't happen. You can dream, but it doesn't
come true. And there you are. Still. You are.
You are you. Get used to it.
Walk to your local grocery and look someone in the eye. Watch him smile when you crack a
smile over the phrase "Pork Loin," not because he has any idea what you are thinking, but
because he has the instinct to smile when you do. Often it is that simple. You know, like "Butt
Rub." It's a real product, trust me. You would laugh. I did. And some people find it to be the
most regular thing in the world. You'll chuckle at his pot belly, and he'll laugh at your long hair.
And neither one of you will really know what is going on in the head of the other. Go look
someone in the eye and tell me what he thinks. You never will be him.
Life is like a storm rolling in: you expect it, but you don't know what it is until it happens. You
can guess, but you never can know. You expect the lightning, and you know it when you see it.
You expect the thunder, and you know it when you hear it. You expect the rain, and you know it
when you feel it. Now it is colder than you guessed, or there is hail, or it passes altogether
before you can get a bearing on it. Turns out you had no idea. Even ants expect it. They build
their nests higher and at sharp angles. You can guess what they are detecting, but you cannot
know it until it happens. They could be wrong, too. Wrong time. Wrong day. You are an ant,
walking bug miles. And there you find yourself, in the middle, waiting on what happens. Let the
storm roll in, and know then.
You try to figure out life any other way.
I figured out that I have no way to figure it out. I could be struck by lightning, or drowned in the
rain, or squashed while I am walking my miles, at any time, and I really don't want to know how
it will end. Knowing would scare me to death. So let me dream. Let me hurt. Let me wake up
guessing. But let me wake up, and let me walk my bug miles.
which is which anymore. So I have to ask myself which is the worst part, all over again, and my
answer to myself is: waking up.
Some days the song plays in my head. I try to avoid it. I avoid the dreams, too, though.
When you're dreaming with a broken heart, the waking up is the hardest part.
Yeah, man. You got it. Who or what hurt you?
'Cause she's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone.
I see. Me too.
I can walk miles in a day. I do walk them. Some days it is all I can do. One step after another. I
avoiding stepping on ant hills or grasshoppers. I spent so much time trying to save a life that I
cannot bear to take one, even unintentionally. I look. I wonder. I feel like I am three years old all
over again, lying in the dirt, watching the bugs crawl. And here I am, such a bug. Not so bad, I
guess. They probably walk miles in a day, too.
Bug miles. Some of the hardest miles to walk. They have no idea where or why they are. They
just are. They walk because there is nothing else for them to do. Eat. Walk. Eat. Walk. No sleep.
Maybe they rest once in a while. And when I wake up, I realize that I will never see that
particular June bug or dragonfly again. That is comforting and distressing at the same time. I
have no idea who or where I am. Sages suggest I have no need to. Bug miles.
Smoke. Walk. Sit in the grass. I recommend it. It's humbling.
You have no idea who you are until you consider who you never can be. Think about that for a
moment. You never can be a dragonfly, seeing multiple copies, all at once, of the same image,
because you were designed to hunt. Never. Ever. You never can be a deer in a forest, looking for
a nibble here and there. You never can be a dog on the floor, however much you might think
yourself to be a bum like him. You can wish, but it won't happen. You can dream, but it doesn't
come true. And there you are. Still. You are.
You are you. Get used to it.
Walk to your local grocery and look someone in the eye. Watch him smile when you crack a
smile over the phrase "Pork Loin," not because he has any idea what you are thinking, but
because he has the instinct to smile when you do. Often it is that simple. You know, like "Butt
Rub." It's a real product, trust me. You would laugh. I did. And some people find it to be the
most regular thing in the world. You'll chuckle at his pot belly, and he'll laugh at your long hair.
And neither one of you will really know what is going on in the head of the other. Go look
someone in the eye and tell me what he thinks. You never will be him.
Life is like a storm rolling in: you expect it, but you don't know what it is until it happens. You
can guess, but you never can know. You expect the lightning, and you know it when you see it.
You expect the thunder, and you know it when you hear it. You expect the rain, and you know it
when you feel it. Now it is colder than you guessed, or there is hail, or it passes altogether
before you can get a bearing on it. Turns out you had no idea. Even ants expect it. They build
their nests higher and at sharp angles. You can guess what they are detecting, but you cannot
know it until it happens. They could be wrong, too. Wrong time. Wrong day. You are an ant,
walking bug miles. And there you find yourself, in the middle, waiting on what happens. Let the
storm roll in, and know then.
You try to figure out life any other way.
I figured out that I have no way to figure it out. I could be struck by lightning, or drowned in the
rain, or squashed while I am walking my miles, at any time, and I really don't want to know how
it will end. Knowing would scare me to death. So let me dream. Let me hurt. Let me wake up
guessing. But let me wake up, and let me walk my bug miles.