Batting Average

I went jogging yesterday. I headed west, ploughing nipples-first into the mandarin sunset of a winter solstice. I ran for half an hour, and things occurred to me out there. Poignant, epiphany like things. Journal entry idea things. Things I would ultimately never write flickered into existence and away again.

This is how it has been lately. Potential journal entries have been like loose eyelashes. They tickle me, but when I try to grasp them and pull them free from my head I lose my grip and they are swallowed back into my skull. I never see them again.

Last evening, however, as I walked through a bitter, spitting wind I was struck by one flare of meaningful brilliance that I would not let slip between my fingers. It... wait, what does happen to those eyelashes which float around on your eye and then vanish into your lacrimal canaliculi like a minifig torso up a vacuum cleaner? Is there like some giant pile of old eyelashes clumped together in my body somewhere? Or are they broken down into proteins and reabsorbed? Can they even be metabolised? Is there some plumbing that forwards them to my intestines like redirected mail. Godammit! have I been ingesting extra calories for every rouge eyelash that escapes my clutches? Do I only need to go jogging to burn off all that eyelash fat I've been gaining the past 29 years?

Wait, wait, eyelashes couldn't possibly contain that many calories. By the time the muscles in my abdomen have passed them through the whole digestive tract I've probably burned net calories. Surely? If anything I should be eating more eyelashes. My eyelashes, other people's eyelashes. A whole, packed fucking train carriage would be like an eyelash farm. Eyelashes for breakfast, then whatever I wanted for dessert. Yoghurt and cereal, probably.

Back to my point, my narrative thought so illuminating it lit up my walk back home... shit, I forgot it. Another slippery eyelash enroute to autocannibalisation.