Old Friends

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The sky is so beautiful. I should look at it more often.

I wrote that three days ago. I felt full of thoughts, but I couldn't find it in myself to put any of them down. Since then, I have looked outside from my windows multiple times. The sky has yet to be extraordinary again.


A week or two ago I had another encounter with a spider. I just looked up and there it was on the wall. I hadn't seen a spider that big in a long time. It was grey, moderately furry, and had what felt like normal proportions between its body and legs. A very ordinary big spider.

Still, I was shocked. I was scared. I knew the fear was irrational - it was no threat to me - but I can't help it. I called upon my father for help because I could do nothing myself. I shouldn't be scared of it, he told me. He mentioned something about a real threat, like a tiger. I told him the spider scared me more than a tiger would, which I don't think was necessarily untrue. They are two different types of fears. That night I thought of a comparison that might explain it to those who don't understand: you know that a corpse is, for our purposes, harmless, but you would want to be away from it, would you not?

My father tried to use a broom bring it down. I watched anxiously as he approached. If he was successful it would fall onto my table, an incredibly uncomfortable prospect. The spider watched too, a fact I was not aware of at the time as I could not see its eyes. I am grateful for that. It would have served to unnerve me even more. Hmm... have I ever noticed the eyes of a real spider before? It is a strange thing to ponder. I'm not sure if I have. If I did, I probably would remember.

Nevertheless, my father approached, and it remained still. It hadn't moved from the spot it rested when I first noticed it. He quickly struck once, twice, but the spider was faster still. It raced across the wall, into the half of wardrobe that is used as a storage space for my parents.

At this point I decided I couldn't be in the room anymore. My father came back later with a poisonous aerosol spray. I didn't see the spider being put inside the plastic bag that he carried out, but I doubt he would pretend to have killed it. He sprayed the windows for good measure. It bothered me when I realised that there must have been gaps at the edge of the windows. I thought my room was impenetrable.

I couldn't help but feel sorry and bitter as I breathed the sickly sweet scent of its death. I am the one who does not belong here, not you. It didn't have any ill intentions, or any intentions at all for that matter. Yet it had to die because it made me uncomfortable. Just because I didn't like it there. No reason that would be justifiable if we were equal beings. And I don't regret it. In those circumstances, I wouldn't have it any other way. This is the injustice of life. How lucky that it works in my favour.


There was this insect that was about the size of my thumb from the tip to the first joint. It was like a cross between a cockroach and large red ant, with a head like a bird's, in the sense that it had noticeable eyes and a beak. Except it wasn't really a beak - it was designed to tear through flesh, like a pincer.

A couple of days ago I had a dream that ended with this insect crawling up my chest. I was standing up but immobilised by fear, waiting, waiting.

When I opened my eyes I still saw a red shape on my blankets, like a stick figure of a spider, a small stick-insect spider. It was real, I've seen spiders like that before. At least that's what I thought. It took a moment for the hallucination to fade, and a few more moments of searching for me to accept that it really was only in my mind.


I've spent perhaps an unhealthy amount of my waking hours wandering, lost in other worlds. I don't indulge in fiction often and I am glad it is this way, because it would affect me less if I did. I would become desensitised, analysing and comparing it rather than living it.

Sadly, all stories end. So I must come back. Perhaps the only story long enough is the one we write ourselves. If only I had the talent or motivation to write.

When I think of what I have written in the past, I realise some of the mistakes I made. I wrote like everyone else. I guess that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, it was a natural reaction since I was new to it. Perhaps it was right back then, but I don't think I can write like that anymore. It's too different. I wanted to write well, and that was a mistake. Or rather, that lead to a mistake. Instead of writing what came naturally, I wrote what I thought others would approve. I remember trying to add description because I was lead to believe that it was really important. But I did it wrong. I wrote pointless, meaningless description. Description just for the sake of having description. It dilutes the story. Every phrase should add meaning. Otherwise you're wasting words. You're wasting time. You're wasting your breath.


The break is almost over. It's time to go back. Am I ready? More than before I guess. Not that it matters.

Who am I now?

The same person. I am growing up slowly. Dealing with things as they come. I don't particularly want to grow up. But it's as inevitable as the flow of time. It's almost time to move on.

Each year I understand a little bit more. A little older. A little wiser. A little colder.

This year I will work a little bit harder. Not because I want or need to, but just as a shift in priorities. I will be less emotional. I will be a little kinder to those who are important to me ... but only by a little bit. And I will be a little kinder to those who are not.

These aren't resolutions or goals. They're what I believe are facts. Predictions given the circumstances.

It's all reset now. Me.

I haven't seen the world in a while. I wonder what it's like now. Probably the same as before.