Cicadoidea

It was a still, sweltering afternoon. The high-pitched piercing whine of cicadas filled the air. They clung to the trunks of huge trees – pin oaks and London planes -  an emerald choir, having metamorphosed leaving brittle brown shells to mark their birth. They would turn up on time, year after year, heralding the arrival of Christmas. They were funny things – like giant green flies. But beautiful. More demanding of respect. It would be a sin to swat one.

The cicada is a strange creature, with an unusual lifecycle. Having lured a female in with his erotic melody, the insects’ mate. The fertilised female, using her abdomen, scratches into the bark of a tree to dig a furrow and lay hundreds of eggs which will hatch, dropping little brown nymphs to the ground. Once there, they burrow into the earth with shovel-like claws, sometimes digging as far as two and a half metres below ground, where they excavate little chambers alongside the roots whose sap they will feed on. Some remain below ground for up to seventeen years, feeding, growing, transforming in loamy darkness. Sleeping. --------. Of. Probably nothing. And then one day, when they are ready, something happens. Their heads turn away from soily walls. And they start to dig again, returning to the surface – to a world they have grown slowly and silently beneath.

Turning to the light and escaping the cave the nymphs climb the trunks of the trees that have nourished them, preparing for the final act of their lives’ theatre. They malt one last time, leaving clawed exoskeletons to emerge into the air anew, spreading large clear wings, weak and soft at first, slowly drying in the air, until finally firm and prepared to explore the world they have spent so long within but know so little of. They start to sing, perhaps elated with the beauty of life in the light – calling out to their compatriots below ground to escape their dark caverns. The nymphs would think them insane – what world is this they sing of? What colour, what light? As they burrow a little further into the dirt they have known. Until, one day, they too would feel the call of the surface.  Waking from that ------ like state. How could they possibly know? Some switch must flick, and instinct – the call to the realisation of self – would present them with a different path. To ignore it is contrary to their very being. So, for the second and final time, they are compelled to dig, playing their role in this ongoing process of becoming. Then, having transformed, mated, and laid their eggs, their life’s purpose is complete. Having done their bit, it is time to die. Christmas beetles. But they’re not really called that.

And they’re probably not ------. But maybe they are. They’re only insects. Animals. They don’t fucking ----- , man. Ah, yes. But dogs can -----? Have you never watched a sleeping dog, twitching and ruffing whilst it sleeps? Take Jimmy here, looking at him snoring away. He does that shit all the time! Yes, but he doesn’t know he’s -------- . He’s an animal.  He doesn’t get it, man. So what, its different? Because we’ve swallowed the blue pill? Or is it the red one. I don’t remember. Yeah man, yeah. I guess. We know they’re just ------. We’re not in the fucking Matrix, man. Ah! But we could be? How would you know? You never had deja vu? What is that man? It’s like you’ve been there before. Like this has happened before. What the fuck is that? Maybe that’s a glitch. Think about it. We’ve all seen that fucking movie. Don’t act like you’re some fucking philosopher. You’re crazy, man. You’re crazy.  It not all, whatsit, ah, meta, fucking metaphysics, man. Why do you get like this? Cool story about the bugs, man. But fucking weird. I don’t get it. I ain’t no bug. Fuck that.  It’s big country man, its Big Country.

“Oh you …
Is this the way that you believed your life was gonna turn out?
Oh you …
Is this the better world that you were making all those plans for?” 

Quit it, man. You think you’re special is that it? You think you’re special? You think that fire you feel is special? You think you’re different, that that’s just you? Everyone fucking has that, man. That little voice – yeah, you know the one – don’t trust that little fucker. It’ll break you. I’m telling you. Grow up. Get a job. Get a fucking girlfriend. Ah the voice? Still think about that, man? It’ll get quiet, if you’re lucky. Or it’ll turn against you, mocking you, taunting you. “What the fuck are you doing?” Life will kill that thing, man. It’s a miracle it hasn’t yet. Fuck. Maybe you are special? Who’re you kidding. Just give it up. No not life you fucking idiot, your, your, your. Dreams. There. I’ve said it. Your. Fucking. Dreams.

And then he’d cried. Quietly. Briefly. Salty, slimy, shiny tears. So that’s where dreams went to die. With a whimper. “Grow up!” They were all right there. In the wrinkles on their faces, the peppered grey of aging hair. The faded glow of his family, his friends. So you always wanted to be a …? No, man, who the fuck wants that? What did you want? Humour me, lets roll back here, you’re a kid- what was it? Its so stupid, man. What the fuck is this anyway? What was it, man? What. did. You. Dream. There, I’ve said it now, too. Who did you DREAM you’d be? I was going to be a fucking palaeontologist, man. A palaeontologist. Dinosaur bones. Stupid shit. Anyway that’s not the point. I see your “I wanted to be a firefighter. I wanted to be a ballerina. I wanted to be a unicorn” bullshit. Why don’t you get a fucking talk show, huh? Guess what, kid? Life. Gets. In. The. Way. Deal with it. Sorry, kid. Sorry. That’s just the way it is. 

And then he stood, stalled for a while, looked like he may say something else, then turned on his heel and walked out with a sigh. Digging a little deeper into the dirt, digging his teeth a little deeper into the root whose bland sap he’d become dependent on. Man! Fuck that guy. Fuck. That. Guy. He could still remember that light, up there. Up. There. Just over there. And he could hear the voice! Fitzgerald got it. At least fucking Fitzgerald got it. The green light man! The green light! Run faster, stretch further, tomorrow, every day. And then one fine morning –

I have a !, and all men (women? Humans), but not equally; the interpretation of, I a of times gone by; Do Androids of Electric Sheep? Requiem for a (the) American -  in your!, your wildest. A Mid-Summer Night’s, Lucid. ------.

He could hear them calling. Beyond view. Muffled. Elated. It sounded beautiful. So. Fucking. beautiful. But, man. Oh, man. His claws were only little, and it was a long way to the surface.