I'm lying in bed, eyes open wide to the warm, darkness-shrouded air that so fills my bedroom. It occupies every little nook, and I'm observing it carefully as if it were a sunset or a sprawling city skyline. I can get lost in it sometimes. I cannot do that in the light, which I suppose could be attributed to my fascination with the mysterious things in life. But moreso, it's the calmness that pervades the darkness. Light is loud...it is vivid and scrambling and constantly ringing out, as if the sun were boasting about its ability to illuminate this earth. Darkness is mellow, like an old woman gently tilting back and forth in a creaky rocking chair. One wonders about her past, and what secrets she keeps behind her wrinkled skin and white hair. Darkness is a bit more inviting to the senses, I have realized in my many sleepless nights of staring straight up at the ceiling...though I barely notice my ceiling exists. It's just blackness, an infinite void gently whispering my name; the old woman beckoning to me.
What is that noise? The dim cloud gently guiding me to a heaven of deep thought has been ripped to shreds. There is something at the window...an insect. Yes, I hear a low, yet desperate, buzzing accompanying each dull thud against the pane. I gently turn my head to see him, being quite cautious in my movement as not to alert him to my presence. I squint my eyes until the black speck becomes apparent. Its vain attempts at escape are erratic, yet intricate at the same time, like all things in nature; like a tornado blazing through a small town...unpredictable but careful, as if every movement had a predetermined fate. The fly smacks into the glass once again, and the "thuds" are almost rhythmic now. I think to myself as I observe the sight, "This is the deathly music of nature", and I begin to feel saddened, my soul heavier than a summer rain cloud.
You haven't experienced such fear and urgency, have you? This is the emergency; the defining moment of horror in your short life. There is no escape to be found, and the only obstacle keeping you from freedom is a sheet of glass. Glass...what a cruel b****** it is in this situation. I feel for you, little fly. Through compound eyes you begrudge the hundreds of pictures of the outside world. It seems so wonderful out there, doesn't it? A place of endless possibilities; a place without four wooden walls suffocating you...mocking your ability to fly. You can fly, little one. This gift from nature is one that humans have longed for ever since we first gazed up at birds gliding through the sky. You possess a gift so envious and beautiful, yet your name is cursed with scorn and disgust. You are swatted, smashed and crushed without a trace of sympathy. Do you take the abuse in stride, little fly? Do you silently laugh at our ways, smugly remembering you have what we can never have? But now...now, the ability has betrayed you. It has led you to carelessly drifting into my home, and into my bedroom. It's not so wonderful anymore, is it? You must be cursing your gift of flight now. That hatred must be swirling around the overwhelming fear, orbiting it like a tiny moon to the dominant planet.
"Thud...thud...thud". They are becoming faster and more frantic now. Your simple insect mind is too accustomed to straightforward logic. You get hungry and you come to the roadkill to feast upon its rotting intestines, and perhaps lay your eggs under its flesh. Now there's an obstacle. Your usual method of directly approaching your target is reduced to a pitiful shell. Little fly, you are like a child desperately clutching at the air after his balloon has been carried away by the wind. But you are determined, and I wonder if your constantly-failing attempts at freedom are an act of stupidity, or the most human act I have ever witnessed an insect perform. I lie my head back onto my pillow, shifting my eyes back to the ceiling and its darkness. Aren't we all just flies...insignificant to the grand scheme of the universe...trying our best to attain peace of mind despite our own careless mistakes...so stubborn that we latch onto what we think is right, even if leads to our own demise? I respect you, little black speck thumping against my window pane.
Keep trying. Maybe we'll all get outside one day.
What is that noise? The dim cloud gently guiding me to a heaven of deep thought has been ripped to shreds. There is something at the window...an insect. Yes, I hear a low, yet desperate, buzzing accompanying each dull thud against the pane. I gently turn my head to see him, being quite cautious in my movement as not to alert him to my presence. I squint my eyes until the black speck becomes apparent. Its vain attempts at escape are erratic, yet intricate at the same time, like all things in nature; like a tornado blazing through a small town...unpredictable but careful, as if every movement had a predetermined fate. The fly smacks into the glass once again, and the "thuds" are almost rhythmic now. I think to myself as I observe the sight, "This is the deathly music of nature", and I begin to feel saddened, my soul heavier than a summer rain cloud.
You haven't experienced such fear and urgency, have you? This is the emergency; the defining moment of horror in your short life. There is no escape to be found, and the only obstacle keeping you from freedom is a sheet of glass. Glass...what a cruel b****** it is in this situation. I feel for you, little fly. Through compound eyes you begrudge the hundreds of pictures of the outside world. It seems so wonderful out there, doesn't it? A place of endless possibilities; a place without four wooden walls suffocating you...mocking your ability to fly. You can fly, little one. This gift from nature is one that humans have longed for ever since we first gazed up at birds gliding through the sky. You possess a gift so envious and beautiful, yet your name is cursed with scorn and disgust. You are swatted, smashed and crushed without a trace of sympathy. Do you take the abuse in stride, little fly? Do you silently laugh at our ways, smugly remembering you have what we can never have? But now...now, the ability has betrayed you. It has led you to carelessly drifting into my home, and into my bedroom. It's not so wonderful anymore, is it? You must be cursing your gift of flight now. That hatred must be swirling around the overwhelming fear, orbiting it like a tiny moon to the dominant planet.
"Thud...thud...thud". They are becoming faster and more frantic now. Your simple insect mind is too accustomed to straightforward logic. You get hungry and you come to the roadkill to feast upon its rotting intestines, and perhaps lay your eggs under its flesh. Now there's an obstacle. Your usual method of directly approaching your target is reduced to a pitiful shell. Little fly, you are like a child desperately clutching at the air after his balloon has been carried away by the wind. But you are determined, and I wonder if your constantly-failing attempts at freedom are an act of stupidity, or the most human act I have ever witnessed an insect perform. I lie my head back onto my pillow, shifting my eyes back to the ceiling and its darkness. Aren't we all just flies...insignificant to the grand scheme of the universe...trying our best to attain peace of mind despite our own careless mistakes...so stubborn that we latch onto what we think is right, even if leads to our own demise? I respect you, little black speck thumping against my window pane.
Keep trying. Maybe we'll all get outside one day.
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