It's always there. It doesn't always seem like it, but it always is. I can tell, because I can check. Just close my eyes, real tight, and move my eyes back and forth real fast. It's fast, but I'm faster. I can catch it. Or maybe it wants to be caught. Maybe it wants me to see it, always on the bare edge of my vision. Taunting me. Teasing me. Waving those ghastly, trailing appendages at the dark, fleeting corners of my peripherals. Only for a second, before it disappears completely. An orb, full of flailing lines. Whites, greys, blacks. Writhing around a great black oval. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it isn't.
I thought I caught it one time. Caught it real good. It must have been dozing. Letting its guard down. I closed my eyes and looked right, and I could see its tentacles swimming. A whole group of them. Lazily, drifting by. Coasting. Floating. I tried focusing on them. Shift my gaze left, right, up, down. It always one step ahead. Just beyond my stare. Bait to my feeble chase.
I scrambled after it. I almost lost it, a few times. Then it stopped moving. It stayed still. I caught it. It was mine. I was its. Its eye.
Its eye. Tendrils, thousands of them. Millions of them. Crawling, ingraining, rooting, seeking. Finding. Feeling. Having.
A dark orb, blackest black. I fell in. Fell, every onyx arm grasping at me. Some, mere inches. Others, miles long. Impossibly long. Disappearing and reappearing at the very corners of my view. It embraced me. It pulled at me. Twisting. Constricting. Suffocating.
I don't chase it anymore.
It's always there. A single arm, lazily floating in front of me. They always come now; eyes open, eyes shut. Floating in front of my gaze.
Begging for attention. Begging to be chased. Begging for me to come back one more time, to see it, to feel it, to find its infinite embrace.
I don't chase it anymore.
Sometimes I dream that I'm sitting in the back of the defunct Weinermobile as it careens driverless down the highway. At first I thought this was symbolic of the powerlessness I feel in life, but then I realized it's actually the Weinermobile's dream of being able to drive again.
Three years ago, when we were burying my uncle, Cleaver and some gross lady dog (Solstice???) showed up at the cemetery and starting going at it really loudly. It ruined everything and we had to have a "re-do" the next day and it cost a fortune. I've hated him ever since for that.
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