The little fly.

I sit here wasting an unreasonable amount of time when I should be doing a number of school projects so as to accomplish graduation in an amount of time that is socially and professionally acceptable for the degree that I am purusing. Instead, I watch this little fly attempt to thrust it's body into the incandescent tube of my room lamp. The tube bathes my bedroom in a sick mild green glow that saps color from everything, but inside that tube the fly sees some sort of salvation, or satisfaction. I sit in my chair, prolonging my evening of work ahead, thinking about that fly. "Why does it pursue such a fruitless goal?" I ask myself. "Why does that little fly attempt to scale a mountain who's summit holds only death if it is reached?" This is a time when someone whose mental state leaned more toward depression and who posessed less sense would draw a parallel between their life and that of the little fly. They would sit and say, "Like the little fly, I too am trying to break into a world that would just as soon see me die in its overwhelming glow than see me shine along with it." There are people out there who would think themselves smart for observing this corrolary. They would think themselves creative for writing a short story or poem about it. They would think themselves accomplshed by publishing a thesis or speaking up in class.

I am not the person who sees himself in the little fly. I am the person who sees himself sitting in the chair, observing the little fly attempting its quest for the unattainable. I do not want to ruin the little fly's dream. I do not want to make its efforts seem worthless. But the little fly's constant assault on the lamp makes a "buzz buzz buzz" that nags at the back of my head.

I get up, and I turn the light off.