Sun shines in but it’s cold. Fly provides the soundtrack to a new spring morning. It wants out, perched now on the window frame, longingly seeking the source of the light. You won’t find it, fly. Even if I let you out, you’re going to fly aimlessly about until something eats you. Fodder.
So I opened the window – a three-fold process – and the fly headed the other way, replaced by the cat, who was quite content to sit in the frame while I held up the window. Now the window’s shut again and both the fly and the cat are still inside. Somewhere.
Ain’t that the way? Seek escape until the avenue presents itself, then run the other way. Seems to be my way, anyhow. Seek, find, bolt.
When we returned from LEAF, there were a dozen or so flies attempting to get out at each bedroom window. I opened the outside windows so they could get out. Two of those flies are still in there, still unable to negotiate the maze. How long does a fly live for? They’ve been there at least two days now. A lifetime of fruitless searching, aiming straight for something they could never hope to reach anyway.
The sun is off-limits. Look, but don’t touch. Actually, don’t look either, it’ll blind you. It can warm you, give you life; your entire existence revolves around it. But don’t touch. It can touch you, but you can’t touch it.
Are we all but flies? All aiming for what can’t be reached?