On Boredom

On the side of the road, strewn between frenetic lines of green and red, waving with the whisper of the wind, two eyeballs lie, their optic nerves tied into a knot, casually tossed out of a car window now speeding down the highway, a plume of exhaust and dirt kicking up in its wake, nonplussed by the unique litter so recently arcing from its origin and it would be right to be so unencumbered by such an act, for what are eyes but meat thought real through sensory illusion.

The glove box is stocked full of ocular flesh orbs, their stench pervading the air as the oppressive heat from above permeates the interior. The driver inhales deeply and his left hand clamps down upon the steering wheel, right foot pushing further forward. He wipes the sweat from his brow with his other hand, adjusts his sunglasses to keep them from slipping off his nose, and runs his wet fingers through his hair, front to back.

He fishes in his pocket and procures a bent cigarette and lighter, flames masterfully conjured with a flick of a wrist and thumb. The horizon beckons.

Like all eyes, from here, they can only see a portion of the world: blood and grass and dirt and ants, a network of movement and force never downtrodden by things considered by macros. They feast first on the cornea, making quick headway of the anterior chamber, before plunging into the iris. The pupil is the heart of the beast, the last thing to go before vision fades, the silhouette of giant pincers mashing to the setting sun.

Darkness lifts and light flows in as hands unlatch and fumble amongst them. Unsure if they should be elated or terrified, they quiver silently. There are rumors of nightmarish things out in the world, hidden in the tall blades. Once they were first removed from their respective hosts, they beamed in the potential of a life lived free. Now, their new host does not wear them, but he does toy with them.

Large fingers collapse around a pair and they plead with them for release, but the fingers respond only with a melancholy twitch and a tighter grip. With what he’s forced them to do, one could hardly lay blame. The others watch in awe as the victims are raised away into the unknown. And then, darkness.

The teeth chatter. The salivary glands excrete against their will. The tongue extends nervously. The jaw expands ecstatically.

Plop.

The horizon beckons.

by Dan Diehn (@diedan)