The small creature.
alone.

The august silk of the arachnid consumes the destitute insect, haunting it with witty jeers and taunts, fully aware of its every weakness and insecurity. A perfect villain.
The miniscule insect thrashes, twists, turns in all directions. Fighting fate and its powerful hold. A desolate future glaring at the weak being. The darkness closes in.

It stops. Its pulse slowing from its previous trepidation. Surrendering. Relaxing. Exhaling the toxins of fear. Rescuing its spirit from the sea of dismal fortune.
It daintily seats its broken frame on top of the web. With a gossamer breath, the tiny insect takes in the grandeur of the arachnid’s masterpiece.
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It was a restless night for the creature. Its camel colored thorax, only the size of a small craft bead, vertically darting across its silky canvas. Its mind processing, creating, imagining; longing to harness the noise of its thoughts. Its motions sudden, but rhythmic. Dexterous black legs scurrying along, radiating integrity and wisdom. Its essence and being completely engrossed in its work. A creator. Transcending its body’s inborn duties into art.
It inner set of eyes detect and process light and shadows, aware of the watchful, creeping, scattered eyes hovering over its mortal body. They’re omnipresent. infallible.
As it works, it steals glances at the small milky insect, trapped. It senses its pain, feeding from it. Desire fills the arachnid, taking over and controlling its movements, its nonexistent fangs beginning to secrete their deadly elixir. It speeds up. The finishing of its painfully beautiful creation, given a purpose.
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All is calm in the midst of the world’s nonsense. The precise angles and lines of the creature’s work glisten and create a state of bliss in the core of the darkness. Complacency washes over, numbing the arachnid’s body, settling its complex limbs. Its final duty to relax and take in its creation.
An event so miniscule and insignificant, capturing the essence of the world. Molding my conscience and soul.