by Max Doggett
The slow tempo, an enlightening melody as heavy rain falls on this cheap, tin roof. The only discomfort, the calm, cold pinch of the breeze coming through the window I forgot to close. But I don't want to close it now. The hypnotising fall of every wave, a small reminder of how the time is passing. Trying to follow the blades of the ceiling fan above my head, with no success.
I admire good writers. Not because they see the world differently, which they may do, but the way they can communicate it. They don't just look at the stars and feel alone like the rest of us; they look and they write. They have the deafening and unpleasant thoughts we all have, except they feel the need to describe them so beautifully that they don't seem that bad. Everyone is different. Some people use religion to numb their demons, some drink until the wave in front of them becomes their only problem. Some see the world so objectively that they don't believe in problems, just reality. Some people just don't see at all. A good writer sees.
Even whilst on holiday it consumes me. I laugh at the irony in that. I suppose I will never have a break. I notice a small gecko still on the warm wooden wall. It seems to be waiting, or maybe sleeping. Anticipating predators at all times. I laid patiently trying to look into the mind of that gecko. I concluded quite quickly that it didn't think as I did, as much as I wanted it to. It simply waited by the lamp hungry for the insects attracted to the light. And in the morning it would go to the rock outside that got the most sunlight. It would repeat this cycle over and over until an agile bird got the best of him, or he would die on that rock, or that wall.
Maybe it was the silence of the air that night, or the lack of music from the party nearby. But a part of me wondered what specifically made geckos different to humans. We feel hungry as geckos do, we seek warmth. I wish I could be a gecko, to not be able to contemplate contentment. To fill my belly with warm insects every night and then in the morning walk ritually to a warm cosy rock. To always be in the present. Never feel regret or guilt. If you do the same thing everyone does then no one can not be proud of you.
A substantial gust of wind bends the trees over my shack and interrupts my train of thought. I suppose being a gecko wouldn't be as good as I'm making it out to be. I think it's the ignorance I envy. I close my eyes and silently wish the gecko a warm life, full of bugs and sunlight. And even if it was nonsense I believed that he wished the same for me.
(C) 2020 Max Doggett