...or rather, it's like air itself. You
know, like we barely notice air—other than in certain
circumstances: when the fragrance of orange blossoms fills the air in
spring, or when it's misty outside and light reflects off the fine
droplets floating in the atmosphere, or when there is a sudden drop in
temperature, or a million other things that might draw our attention to the air around us for a moment. Most of the time we hardly notice we're
breathing it, and just like that, we shouldn't notice writing much,
except for a few moments of beauty or strangeness or extremity.
So when I spend so much time writing
about what is, essentially, air, I get a little fatigued. It's
like walking around noting every inhale and every exhale and every shift in the breeze
and the smell of the kitty litter. Yes, it's valuable to be aware, but I have other
things to concern myself with. I mean, I have to change the
kitty litter. I have things on my mind.