Webs

Spiderweb, in the corner.  Underneath the shelf.  Above the CD player.

A distant window is awash in evening gold.  The light journeys long to reach my eyes.  It winks against the dust of the still air, floating, mindlessly, silently.

A sanctuary, wide, and hallowed.  I sit in the corner; I fiddle with knobs of electronics.  An ancient religion with modern trappings:  microphones, speakers, projectors.  All must be managed by

I see the web, the spiderweb.  Not a web, but strings; nothing but strings.  Single strands, up and down, up and down, from the plastic below to the wood above.  Angled, slightly.  Crisscrossed, slightly.  But no spirals, no hexagons, no sight of a hallway fading into the distance.  Only a forest of strands, not billowing, but taught.  I could picture myself as a speck, walking through them, an eerie dreamscape to behold.

Wonderment.  It is an odd wonderment I feel, coming from nowhere.  They are cobwebs.  Products of neglectful dusting.  Arranged to catch no flies, no mites; they are worth less than many things in the world.  But I have never seen them so before, never like this.  These lines, these thin lines of gossamer scribed in the air, on the fabric of the world.  Nigh-invisible fuzz collects on them:  static on the screen of life.

I blow a faint breeze their way, thinking to budge them, thinking to break their spell on me.  But I cannot bring myself to blow so hard as to break it.  I want to, but I do not want to.  I think perhaps I only wish to know if it could be broken, without breaking them.  A fool’s request, to eat the cake you want to have.

A fool I am.  The strands wave and billow.  They are not so taught and perfect as I led myself to believe.  The spell is broken.  The service continues.  The people leave.  The webs are forgotten.

But here, they will stay.

 

{Something that happened to me today}

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