spider apathy

There’s a spider somewhere in my car. I can’t bring myself to do anything about it – kill it, move it, care about it. I was driving and it crawled out from the sun visor and over my head, settling above the backseats. Not large, not too small. Black. Quick. I watched it crawl along the roof and my car drifted back and forth at my misplaced attention. I shrugged and let it be. When I paused at the roundabout, I looked around and realised I’d lost it. Maybe it’s crawled back behind a sun visor, maybe between the seats. Maybe it’s found an escape out the crack of a window. Maybe it just lives here now.

There’s a spider on the ceiling of my bedroom. This one’s big – a fat body and long thin legs. Hairy. The roof is too high for me to do anything about it. I lay on my bed and we stare at each other. I choose to think that it’s looking right at me, and we assess one another. I wonder if it’s confused how it got to where it is now. I know I am. My apathy now extends to spiders. I imagine that when I’m sleeping, it crawls across my face, slow and creeping. But what’s the matter? Ignorance is bliss. Me and the spider sleep side by side. In a room, just existing. When I wake, it’s gone. I hope it found a way out of this house even if I can’t.

free writing - 19/02/2024