This wasn't an inexplicable feeling either. I went to bed last night under the impression that I was covered in ants. I wasn't actually covered, I think. I think it was just my arm and leg hairs being...jostled...as I moved under the cover. But I was still tripping out because of all the ants that have been around. Fuckin' ants man. They've been literally all over the place this season.
You leave out a tiny grain of obliterated shitgruel and all of a sudden the entire colony is swarming upon it. They must be really desperate. If you blow on them or anything they absolutely trip out. It must suck being an ant. I usually try to avoid killing ants. I blow them away, which must really mess with their poor little heads.
They travel in well-ordered lines. Everything is very linear and interconnected. One ant is always in front of the other. Then you blow one out into the far reaches of space and then what does he do? He wanders around in loops on a great alien plane of marble for eternity, as far as I'm concerned. It's too bad they have to be such a nuisance.
Raid is an absolute killer too. I've seen it sprayed on them. They instantly shrivel up at the epicenter, and then the rest in proximity start writhing on their backs and it's very hideous. I am pretty convinced they feel their own world of pain and sorrow in a relative way.
I still haven't solved my moral dilemma on killing, or where to draw the line between what truly lives in a conscious way. If I had my way I wouldn't kill anything, just to be sure. But the problem is that we exist as displacements in a world that is universally living. So there is always going to be a point at which we have to occupy the space we are meant to occupy, possibly denying that space to something else that seeks it.
That is a problem for another day. The whole point of this post is to provide an outlet for an absolutely miserable dream I had last night, vaguely connected to the ants on my body phenomenon. It has to be connected, because I went to sleep feeling that way.
In the dream, I was back in my room at my Dad's old house, but it wasn't my room really, it was the ruins of my room, where the room itself had become a sort of backyard terrace.
I was munching on a sandwich and I began inspecting it because I suspected that the jelly that was on it had turned to ketchup. Suddenly, I noticed a strange ribbed surface at the end of the sandwich, and realized that a huge cockroach was actually baked into the bread. The feet and antennae were hanging out of it and everything. I held the sandwich out in horror and my Dad yelled, "Aw that's disgusting!" Then there were baby cockroaches swarming my room, darting every which way, so I suspected the damned baked cockroach had laid eggs in a sort of bizarre Trojan horse maneuver.
That's why I woke up feeling invaded by insects. The bastards were everywhere, even deep in my psyche. All morning I had this unshakable feeling of dirtiness. Sandwiches are going to be a hell of a lot of fun eating now.
I mean, I understand dreams are a way of consolidating information and organizing everything into a digestible construct (or so we currently believe), but really come on. It doesn't have to come up with dreams like this. Really.
Fuckin' bugs man.
