der Kampf der Fliege

The Struggle of the Fly

He hovers quietly before dropping through the hole, investigating the source of attraction before delving into it. Seconds later, he discovers that it is merely flavored water which arouses his attention; sadly, it is too late. The cap of the bottle has already been replaced by the devious human whose waste attracted the fly.

The fly collides with the plastic lid. No success. The human reaches for the bottle, and soon, the fly has been submerged in the liquid which he had realized would not provide sustenance. Her hand shakes the bottle, pausing momentarily to check the status of the insect which she believes carries diseases and generally provides annoyances. All six legs of the fly kick out, raking the air for something solid to serve as a life preserver. She shakes the bottle again, the red liquid sloshing inside the nearly full bottle as the fly struggles to stay alive.

Ceasing the torture, she sets the bottle back down on her nightstand and surveils the fly's continued struggle. He is now floating atop the meniscus on his back, his wings submerged, as his legs continue to thrash as a result of what brainless panic he feels. There is no hope of escape, and yet, he works. This hopelessness of this predicament is the least of his worries as he fights the liquid with continued ferocity.

An hour later, she picks the bottle up again, wondering if his life has been mercifully ended. Considering his apparent inability to feel pain, she does not regret that he continues to struggle, his minuscule body shuddering in the water as he tries to flee his captor. She shakes the bottle again, this time hoping that it does kill him so he will no longer struggle. She steadies the bottle on the plastic of the nightstand. No such luck.

Over the next eight hours, the fly would continue to flail but taste no success; in the morning, his legs are finally still. Wondering if he has died, she turns the bottle on its side in order to more closely examine his form. Responding immediately to the motion, he awakens and begins to kick once again, as if walking on some otherworldly plane invisible to her eyes. His miserable life continues, though he could not harbor any hope even if he could grasp the situation in which he has placed himself.

Ignorance is bliss.

She leaves him, his tiny body dipped into the semisweet nectar, and eventually returns many hours later. His body is finally still, his legs no longer kick. She reaches for the bottle and causes displacement of the liquid. He still does not move. It finally appears he has abandoned his struggle and died, leaving behind a helpless body in a bottle of VitaminWater. She respects his late struggle but feels relieved that he is not perched on her wall or prancing with disease around her room.

In this way, we trample those under us, observing their struggles as if through a microscope, a pair of binoculars, a satellite connection. We once again experience the sour taste of our own past struggles but do not apply this recollection. We relish our successes and remain aloof.

Until some other being sees us, stranded, and puts the top back on the bottle, shaking it to exacerbate the situation and dramatize the struggle until we discontinue the fight. We look to fate, contacts, even celestial or spiritual beings to save us. We continue to flail. Some relinquish faster than others. All will eventually die.

...Ignorance is bliss.