Plastic to glass, a frantic stirring.
I awake to a wasp stuck in the blinds that can’t fly out of the window. It was so easy to get in, an exciting new adventure, but the wasp refused to turn around and fly for the door. Aware, but it doesn’t understand – like color to a dog.
A thin pane of glass separates the creature from the outside world; a pane that refuses to yield. Stubborn and blind, the wasp’s attempts at escape are valiant and in vain. In a just world, his efforts might have been rewarded.
But the world is not just and his life span is short, dripping away like the dew accumulated on the gutter above. The pain of desperation exhausts life.
He’ll never fly free again.
We are blind, we struggle, buzz busily and flap our wings, only to fly into a sheet of glass. It’s comical at first, but we do it again and again until there’s no more life to spare. Struggling to comprehend, to advance, to be anywhere else, to break through the glass. Unwilling to step back, incapable of locating the back door.
The lifeless corpse falls to the sill and I sweep it gently away in my palm. Rarely empty, another wasp replaces the last almost everyday.