A spider shares the morning shower, clinging to a drop of water on the wall. But water multiplied becomes a force, and he is washed down to the floor of the tub. He doesn’t move; I think he’s dead. But then a flicker and I look back at him again. Or rather, them. For there are two now, totally identical.
In that single moment, afraid to blink it all away, I realize that I am seeing something that is not there. Aware of how my eyes are focused, I am afraid to lose this vision of another space that I did not know existed. But human eyes grow tired, and without the need to close them, my eyes each take their turn at seeing from their own perspective. Without moving, the now-single spider dances back and force within that range of vision.
And I cannot get the two of them back again.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Finally… something i can understand. I see atoms. Okay, perhaps not, but if i stare at the space directly in front of me and focus my eyes on nothing, i see movement in the air. Constant movement, although the particles causing the movement are too tiny to see individually. Like looking at a hard rain… you see the movement, the rain, but not each drop. If i unfocus my eyes, i see this all the time. Except in the dark.
Of course, i still think i saw bigfoot once, so there you go.
I wish you a good week.
I believe you, Anne. On seeing both the air and Bigfoot.