As I lay down to sleep at 11:30 my eyes are rolling around in my head, sore from looking at things. I drift in and out of consciousness before sitting straight up in my bed, hearing the buzz of the fly, circling around that lamp now burnt out.
"Its wings are flapping together now faster than before, realizing that the busy human below had given up on taking its life. It never flies in a straight line, not as long as I am awake anyway.
I close my eyes for a second time and hear the buzzing louder, and louder, breaking the constant stream of future-worry that is running through my neurotransmitters. The visceral buzzing of an animal I’ll never know the thoughts of overcomes everything. I must get up, I must kill the damn thing. And not a moment sooner than my feet hit the floor, the fly lands. It’s sense of survival is astounding. It honors that God given notion we all have: to hunt or be hunted.
I’m staring at it, perched on a lightbulb and think, I could have been born a fly, or a dog, or a fish. I could have been born without higher consciousness than finding something to eat and somewhere to sleep. The simplicity of not knowing what is expected of you, responding only to the things around you and operating on a basic level created by nothing but evolution."