As I stare out the open window, a sense of calmness possesses me. I close my eyes and my senses heighten. I can feel a gentle breeze graze my rosy cheeks and can hear the whistling of the wind. The roaring engines of a 747 shake my eardrums from overhead. The melodious wind chimes from the house next door echo as they are carried throughout the air. In the near distance, a faint buzzing can be heard. It ventures closer and circles around in front of me but I cannot locate its source.
Within a few minutes a silhouette comes into view. It is small, about the size of my fingernail. As it mimics a zigzag pattern, it then lands on the windowsill. It is but a fly; a puny little creature that knows not where he is. He simply goes wherever the flight of the wind carries him. What a pointless life, if one can even call it that. I almost feel pity for the thing; for that’s all he is – a thing. He lives but a mere month with no tasks to carry out, no one to live for but itself. The fly is alone in the world with its only goals being to eat and mate – nothing more.
If only he had been born a bee. At least this insect gives back to Mother Nature; for it aids in the process of pollination. Not to mention the fact that it at least possesses some sort of beauty in its appearance as it body contains a bright yellow color. The fly is but a black blob. Ugly, frail, disgusting, pitiful. It is an insect defined by its name; for all it does is fly. The one in front of me must hear my thoughts; for he begins to prepare for takeoff. As he soars upward, he does not leave the enclosure of my room, but rather flits from corner to corner, wall to wall – that’s all he can do. After minutes of watching his useless entertainment, he returns back to the comfort of the windowsill. His body language illustrates the definition of pain. He tries to fly again, but his wings are no longer strong enough.
“What happened?” I think to myself. Yet asking this question is as if praying for rain in a never-ending drought – worthless. All I can do is watch and wait. As the pitiful fly rolls over onto its back, legs contorted in the air, I now understand what is about to happen. Death is upon him. He makes one last attempt to live, but that only sucks all the energy out of him and sends his body spinning in a clockwise motion. One of his legs fidgets. It is now over. He is no longer suffering from the symptoms of death; for he is no longer alive.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Kaylyn, you did a job well done with this post. You did exaclty what was required, imitate the writing of Virgina Woolf. I thought it was good way to imitate it, instead of the moth example you went with the death of the fly and threw your own perspetive of life and death. When you examine the life of the fly you caused that I also examine my own life—goals, and the things I live for. Who knew that such a simple observation could bring so much reflection on more complex matters. I really enjoyed reading this :).
ReplyDeleteI really, really loved this post. I was glad you did one like Virginia Wolfe. I tried reading it and didn’t quite understand it. Although after reading your blog I was able to understand it better. I loved the easiness of your words across the page. The familiar and even similar way you related the moth to a fly. I thank you for giving me clarity. I also wanted to apologize for not publishing my post I clicked the wrong button.
ReplyDeleteMercedes