The most exciting thing going on in my life right now is a speck of toothpaste on the mirror in my bathroom. Every time I walk into the place, in that moment of darkness before I flip on the light switch, I see this speck out of the corner of my eye, and for a fraction of a second I think it’s a cockroach.
I don’t know why I think this: the speck is tiny and white; it doesn’t look the slightest bit like an insect. Yet my brain doesn’t understand that. It sees the speck on the glass and thinks “insect” before even waiting for confirmation from my eyes. And so every time I walk into my bathroom, for that tiny fraction of a second, I’m terrified. And then I get over it.
In this bold modern era, we middle-class Americans drive our cars along endless circular roads but pretend there are still frontiers to be conquered and adventures to be had. We never have to worry about disease and famine; our burden is different: we have to shake off the spectre of apathy. We lead pre-programmed lives and pretend we see volition where there is none. Every day is a speck of toothpaste in the mirror; every day we have to pretend that speck is even the least bit interesting.
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