that drip which made her stop a step after she walked under the icicle, turn in time to watch it, feel it, slice through the tuft of air in front of her nose and impale an unsuspecting caterpillar.
that caterpillar had been lucky enough to survive two days of icicle weather and was lucky enough to not be stepped on by the girl. it was in that moment that his luck ran out and the caterpillar squirmed his last squirm on either side of his icy intruder.
that look in the caterpillar’s eyes as he squirmed his last squirm was what did it. a look from a caterpillar.
that this was all it took to make her insides uncocoon around the feeling she’d kept stashed in hibernation since the last time it was icicle weather was nearly enough to raise her temperature past the melting point of caterpillars.
but not quite.
that would have been too much to fit into a single day.
let alone a single moment.
though all of this fits into a single [this] moment.
or so she’s heard.
that this is too much to fit into a single moment might not make any more sense than watching an icicle zip past her nose and impale a formerly lucky caterpillar. but. who’s counting?
she’s not too keen on counting.
counting is 1 sure method of removing the life from any moment.
she’s found it takes 2. maybe 3 seconds.
‘quality, not quantity,’ she says.
that is what she says, but that’s not always what she lives.
there’s just so much.
she has a hard time deciding. ‘focus.’ she hears. usually from the inside. when it’s from the inside, it’s harder not to listen.
but it’s also hard to listen to ‘focus’ when there are thirty other words happening that are not ‘focus.’ she has to hear ‘focus’ before she has the ability to focus on that single word and ignore the other thirty words. which makes about as much sense as that caterpillar thing.