Snail
Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann on Unsplash
Wake up. There’s a snail on your bed. It’s big, round and has eyes on the stems on its head. Look again. The snail is you! You’re on the bed, with a hard shell on your back, and eyes on the sides of your head.
You don’t stand like a human. You don’t walk like a human. You don’t talk like a human. Heave your shell onto your back and crawl over to me. And whatever you do… don’t let go of your shell for life. Got it? Without a shell, you’re just a slug, a pasty tube of slime and crap.
What is a shell even good for? Protection? If I step on you, it splinters all the same, a bunch of cracked shards on top of the aforementioned pasty sludge. It’s slightly more tedious to clean off the pavement. A home? Yes, you don’t have one, even in your small little brain. It’s never safe in there, isn’t it? Your eyes on the sides of your head, they aren’t there to keep watch anymore, aren’t they? Those two balls swirl around and capture everything that can kill you, a breaking branch teetering on a single strand, the neighbor’s inquisitive cat, a misplaced foot that goes plop. But you can’t outrun any of them.
And the truth is, you can’t hide away from everything. You’re only a snail with a hard shell.
This series is part of a writing project: Fever Dream
Daydreamer's Notes 