The household fly, an extraordinary creature. Behold, as it carries its own weight on those smallish and thin wings, and how it searches for food with its little trout, carefully making its way across the surface it's currently attached itself to. Look, as it uses its remarkable feet to become, literally, a fly on the wall, a fly on the floor, a fly in the ceiling, on an old receit, on your auntie's nose.
Watch as it goes on its daily hunt for food, and SMACK, there comes the newspaper crashing down upon the unknowing being, making a whole fly family grief desperately, and all for no use.
Who are the flies?
Bugs?
Or just something that bugs us?
Either way we happily smash them, stomp on them, and have them assassinated in various ways, out of nothing but sheer irritation.
What if we were those flies. What if we were proud to have received the most precious of all treasures one could ever get - to live. And what if it was us who were being randomly slaughtered, butchered, and thrown away with the trash, as if we were worthless...
There's nothing else to it, is there?
We are just like the flies, with the one difference that we take out our barbarism on eachother. And if it doesn't happen to us in particular, we're better off not looking. Not caring.
Call me strange, but I've always been of the idea that we have something in common with every living thing we come across, every living thing that we slay. We got life.
And if we're really gonna impune on the respect that they earn for it, is it too much to ask that we do it for a purpose?
That we do it as long as it's about kill, or be killed, eat, or be eaten; live, or die... feed, or starve.
So no, take that newspaper back.
I will not touch another innocent life, no matter who decides that a human's life is automatically worth more.
No.
I could have been that amazing little household fly.
And that household fly could have been me...
NO MORE DEATH, SAVVY?
says the POET in the JAR
Who are the flies?
Bugs?
Or just something that bugs us?
Either way we happily smash them, stomp on them, and have them assassinated in various ways, out of nothing but sheer irritation.
What if we were those flies. What if we were proud to have received the most precious of all treasures one could ever get - to live. And what if it was us who were being randomly slaughtered, butchered, and thrown away with the trash, as if we were worthless...
There's nothing else to it, is there?
We are just like the flies, with the one difference that we take out our barbarism on eachother. And if it doesn't happen to us in particular, we're better off not looking. Not caring.
Call me strange, but I've always been of the idea that we have something in common with every living thing we come across, every living thing that we slay. We got life.
And if we're really gonna impune on the respect that they earn for it, is it too much to ask that we do it for a purpose?
That we do it as long as it's about kill, or be killed, eat, or be eaten; live, or die... feed, or starve.
So no, take that newspaper back.
I will not touch another innocent life, no matter who decides that a human's life is automatically worth more.
No.
I could have been that amazing little household fly.
And that household fly could have been me...
NO MORE DEATH, SAVVY?
says the POET in the JAR
This is a beautiful sentiment Becca. The whole thing is such a wonderful outlook on life, I'll try my best to fix the instinct drilled into my, to allow the flies to take their measly amount instead of killing them.
ReplyDeleteIt did twist your mind a bit, didn't it? xD
ReplyDelete