The only thing that hit me when I woke up was, boy there are a lot of bugs in this world. In these hot thunderstorm summer nights with dark clouds giving way to blasting sunflares, with electricity in everything we do and a humidity fooling your evening nature walk for a dive out off the coast of Australia, there are little black bugs in every layer of the air, from head to toe you become coated in a mixture of sweat and unspecified bugs, commonly referred to as thunderbugs, allowing imprecise causation to name whole species.

When I hide from nature and get inside with my computer or my games, there are a whole different kind of beasts that we refer to as bugs. They not so much happen in the world as they keep things from happening, going against the usual works of the wheels, throwing a wet cloth in the face of anyone trying too hard to get through these fictive lives. They’re never predictable, not named through an inductive inference like the thunderbugs, but they share a similarity with them nonetheless, in that we feel we would rather be without them, that they’re an irritating element of our lives, even if we realise that we’d have to change our lives dramatically if the naturebugs weren’t there. In like fashion our lives would be altered by the digital bugs not being there, for how often has progress been made when a genius encountered a problem in the existing web of truths? How little would we strive, if the world always everywhere functioned as we predicted it to? How quiet a digital life we would live without the digital bugs.

But then there’s a third kind of bug. And it’s the one that sticks out from the rest. The kind of bug we wish to be hit by, but is nonetheless a problem for us. It’s an emotive bug, a relational bug that binds us to people and things, and leaves us breathless–for a moment or a lifetime–while we try to feel deep down inside how this bug might shift the direction of our lives, leading us astray or finally onto the path, always blinding us with the sun in our eyes, feeling both too hot and never hot enough, always wanting more, always yearning to get closer to that all-consuming sun, burning our fingers, our toes, letting our foreheads melt in the face of the love bug as it bites through our skin, deep into the bleeding muscle beating life into our bodies. This might be the most dangerous bug of them all. But I never found an effective repellant. And I doubt I’ll find it now.


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