The Sound of Insects

I wish I had the patience to grow my hair out long. Maybe it says something about me that I don’t.

I need some way to redeem my flaws. I need something—just one thing—so beautiful it outshines the rest of me. Fills up every crevasse and makes me appear smooth; flawless. Or as if the flaws were meant to be. Forgivable.

I think that’s what I want, for the universe to forgive me. I’m not sure what for. For not being everything I strive to be.

There have been times I’ve felt as if I was doing alright. Once particularly I was exploring the neighborhood, dashing through people’s sprinklers where they sprayed onto bits of the sidewalk and I felt I was alright. A police officer pulled over to the side of the road and asked me if I’d been drinking. No, sir, no; just young and free and for once not drowning. For once spinning on my toes with no trembling.

What would it even be like to have nothing—not one thing—that you hated about yourself?

I watched a movie once, based on a true story. Based on the diary of a man committed to suicide by starvation. It was called “The Sound of Insects” and it was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. He lived in the woods in a tent. He never left; he drank rainwater. He was found shriveled and wrapped in blankets with a journal and his thoughts were lovely. I wish I had written them. I starved myself too but not for as long, and my diaries during the time were nowhere near as haunting as his. I suppose my goals were different. Self-destruction still, to be sure, but not in the same way.

I remember it and I observe that this Chardonnay is not as potent as I would like and I remember the sound of insects myself, the bugs in the woods where my parents live. In the summer the cicadas are so loud you can hear them from the house. It makes sense I guess; there are lots of trees. I miss the sound of insects. You don’t hear them much in the city, here in the world of blocks and hard surfaces. Small spaces, low ceilings. I don’t miss the grasshoppers bumping against my legs but I miss the sound their wings make.

Lately I lay in bed and write, the cat a constant presence in my lap.

If no one saw what I did, would I still do it? No one sees, and I do things still, but sometimes only for the hope.