I am plagued by them. It. An army of one. A single fucking mosquito that has the power to ruin my day. The stoics would say I am giving it that power by responding, by letting it crawl under my skin. I’d like to put Marcus Aurelius in room full of those long legged mosquitos and see how he fares. Perhaps he’d sit calmly in the center of the room, unbothered by the lumps appearing on every square inch of his skin. Perhaps he'd swell up like a balloon before giving the mosquitos the satisfaction of caring.
But I care. I think about my long 6am to 9pm day and I scratch and I fidget and I curse the gods who created these infernal creatures. I imagine there is just one. It feasts on the two of us all night, alternating between the different flavors of blood. Perhaps mine is more dense, more nutrient rich with all the smoothies I’ve been drinking. Perhaps his is sweeter, more flavorful with all the waimai he’s been eating. Perhaps The Mosquito isn’t even hungry, just grazing on us like a half eaten charcuterie board. A nibble of parmesan here. A slice of prosciutto there. A dab of pesto to turn it into a proper hors d'oeuvres. I’m not even a main course. Just piece of meat on a spit turning and turning at the pleasure of Mr. Mosquito. I wonder if it knows the havoc it wrecks, if it shivers in pleasure on its destructive path. Weaving here and there, bobbing up and down, having a goddamn promenade over the wasteland we once called a bed. Our twitching, lumpy corpses trophies of its conquest. Who are we, with lumbering limbs, to battle against the speed and wit of Mosquito Man? We think we know how to consume, how to fill our bodies with gluttony. But no, the internet tells me there is no limit to the number of bites a mosquito can inflict. No limit. No limit but the delicate body that holds together my pint of blood. And I am wrong to see my enemy as male. According to westernexterminator.com, the "female mosquito will continue to feed until she is full. After she has consumed enough blood, she will rest for a couple of days before laying her eggs. Once this is complete, she is ready to bite again." What an insatiable creature the she mosquito is.
And yet for all she has taken, she has given too. I sit here at 3am writing, creatively, for the first time in a year. My notes app since October 23rd of 2021 is filled with lists, school-related content, or lists about school. Before that though, there is a frenzy of short pieces. Bursts of yearning, descriptions of travel, phrases that upon re-reading make me beam with pride. All that creativity ebbed suddenly. Or found a different avenue of expression.
My relationship is also a year old. Despite being the person who usually takes, I find myself in the unexpected position of having given too much. My internal world has shrunk to the size of one person. The words once meant for the page have transformed into long, frustrating conversations. Ones in which my ability to express diminishes until I am empty of words. It’s time to learn from the hungry she mosquito. Consume the blood of new experiences, gestate, then create. Take and take until my internal world expands to encompass, well, the world. Not to fear, Marcus Aurelius, I won’t take this lesson of consumption to an extreme. But I’m ready to start creating again. And like the lumps that cover my body, this gift from the she mosquito I shall not forget.
Comments