Conversation · Insulindian Phasmid

Hissing and clicking, the arthropod extends its mandible-like antennae to greet you again. You're right below it, looking up at the colossal chitin of its white limbs. Its small eyes look at nothing in particular.

Tell me -- what are you doing?

I exist.

Am I having a violent epileptic seizure?

It doesn't look like that.

Okay good. Forget it.

I already did.

What does it look like?

You're staring at me. For about three minutes now.

Then, I think I'm having a vision. About the final fate of mankind.

What if it's not you? What if the three metres tall stick insect is having the vision -- while you're alone and petrified.

Okay. Just looking at the stick insect. Everything is normal.

Yes. For me everything is always normal. God is in his heaven -- everything is normal on Earth.

Is this a dream? What is happening?

No. You are awake. I am real. Light is forming me. This is real.

"Cuno. Am I having a violent epileptic seizure?"

"Doesn't look like you're spazzin' out" he whispers behind you. "Cuno knows all about seizures."

"What does it look like?"

"You're just staring at the giant insect."

"I think I'm having a vision. About the final fate of mankind."

"Cool. So's Cuno -- Cuno's also having a vision of a giant insect. And it's real. Back off before it eats you..."

"Nothing. Just looking at the stick insect. Everything is normal."

"Yeah -- real normal. There's a giant stick insect there. Back off, before it eats you..."

"Okay good. Forget it."

"No, quit frontin'. What's up with you? We're a team, cop."

Intruded upon -- by what?

Shapes of plants and animals. And internal sensations. A swarm of sounds, tiny vibrations on the inside of my forearms -- all speak of complexities totally beyond my understanding.

I am at the end of a narrow funnel. Weightless. So light it only feels like something to be me. In truth -- perhaps I'm nothing? I certainly do not have a soul. And if I did, it would never ache.

You're the type of animal I would like to be.

Are you sure?

No, I'm not. Why are you asking?

Sometimes, when moulting, I regrow a lost limb. One time something went wrong and a small leg replaced a missing antenna.

That's absolutely nothing.

The leg tried to move around independently, making it hard to walk.

You don't have a foot there now!

Yes, thankfully someone ate it. The next time I moulted I grew an antenna again!

This would explain its antenna being smaller.

Got it. Solved it.

Officially, it was the three metres tall stick insect who solved it.

See! It's nothing.

Yes, compared to the immeasurable, fiery empyrean of glass and terror in your head, it seems trivial. I just thought you should know.

Maybe you would find it interesting!

All's well that ends well.

Yes, I am lucky. It is nothing compared to the horror that is you -- with all of creation reflected in your forebrain. A nerve mirror of horrifying fidelity. Constant, never-ending damnation.

It would take a million years of evolution -- or a total reversal in the condition of the world -- for your pain to end.

Way worse has happened to me.

Of course, it is nothing compared to the horror that is you -- with all of creation reflected in your forebrain, in terrible fidelity, a fire mirror. Eternal, never-ending damnation.

This is the explanation I came up with?

No -- it's what the three metres tall stick insect came up with.

Okay. I don't want to hear more about that.

So, you see, it's sometimes difficult to be an insect. All of nature is a kind of horror, or strife -- though none of it as horrible as you. With all of creation reflected in your forebrain.

So, you see, it's sometimes also difficult being a stick insect. The leg tried to move independently, making it hard to walk. But hearing about it makes you uncomfortable, I understand.

Change of topic!

A small leg. That's horrible.

Yes. The leg tried to move around independently, making it hard to walk.

That's cool.

No. The leg tried to move around independently, making it hard to walk.

Yes I'm sure. Why do you ask?

I'm glad to be me -- an incredibly sensitive instrument.

Few of us can begin to imagine the horror of you -- with all of creation reflected in your forebrain. It must be like the highest of hells, a kaleidoscope of fire and writhing glass. Eternal damnation.