I want to call the bare sky my ceiling some day. I’ll have to get rid of my fear of bugs first, though. Maybe “fear” is too strong a word – dislike? Passive annoyance? No, it was definitely fear before I lived in Peru for six weeks, but after enduring a scarring case of the fleas and waking up with a scorpion on my chest I must feel as if my war wounds have proven my worth to the little creatures because lately I’ve caught myself talking to them. “Ok ok, I get it. I smell funny,” and "What do you want from me?" and the sort.
The response I get from bugs is exceedingly more interesting than the response I get when talking to pets because pets will love me regardless of the things I tell them, as long as they receive my attention in return. Bugs will never love me and they are never attention-driven. They are impartial to my words, which makes me feel it even more necessary that they hear me. Their needs surpass surface level; they go straight for the blood.
They are desperate, and I am not. I have the upper hand.
At least until a malaria-carrying mosquito or a poisonous spider decides he wants me.
Perhaps I need more bug trauma in my life to dissipate the looming “worst case scenario” I imagine will ruin my bare sky, but for now, when the stars seem to overlap each other and the trees whisper a lullaby to coax my slumber and the bugs find someone else’s sweet blood to suckle, only then will I call the bare sky my ceiling.
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