How to tell an Antlion from a Damselfly?
I am at the traffic junction, between a black Mercedes and a beggar limping with extended hands that held some coins. I look at the beggar and then at the man tapping his fingers on the steering. This is absurd I thought how could two worlds be so unreal. But I had to choose and choose one world at a time, enter and strip for my voyeuristic delight. The hopeless beggar looked an easy option, since I hadn’t (yet) perfected the art of slipping through window panes. It is not that I am not trying, I try it every morning but window panes are the toughest. I close my eyes utter some mumbo jumbo and here I am inside the body of the beggar. What a miserable fellow he is. I don’t understand his thoughts but I know I am hungry and decide to go to nearest restaurant, I am not allowed in. I gave a loud curse, the ferocity even surprise me. The thought of food seem etched in my mind, every action guided to fulfill this mission.
In the forest by the bush lived a spider that spins its web. Late into the noon a damselfly got trapped in the net. The dainty fly was least petrified and asked the Orb if eating make him less happy. The spider reflected on the query and said he never thought about what he ate.
So here I am, begging has become my second nature. The moment I see someone approaching, I slouch a bit, exaggerate my limp and contort my face into gloominess that had reason to excite empathy. I though am concerned about my behavior since it has acquired a cloak of instinctiveness that I regret. I want to have a control, a say on how I approach a situation. I want to strategize, to study each individual’s worth before exhibiting my craft. I don’t want to waste my artistry of misery on philistines. I spent time in observing, collecting critical information –like for instance footwear can tell lot about the person. An old clean pair was sure sign of not only stingy but natural immunity to histrionics.
Damselfly was confident of her ability of guise. She asked if the wise spider doesn’t think an elegant creature like her should live more than a mere insect. The spider had begun to spin his web around her, making her immobile. Then the spider sat to ponder.
I am getting used to my desolate soul. I walk all day without much purpose. Sometimes a sight catches my fancy and I hang around the vicinity, meanwhile contemplating nothing. The thought of what I wear or where I go don’t seem to be my concern. It really didn’t matter as long as I get something to eat. I stand next to an eatery, the sight exaggerate my senses. The anguish is real and difficult to ignore by humane. This is what I like, to be around food. But I am asked to move; a guard came and pushes me aside. He hit me with stick and tries to kick me. I trip sideways. Tricked him didn’t I. He warns me of dire consequence. I defecate in my trouser, it dribbles along my leg. I can feel it go all the way down. I enjoy it, so I smile, though it does labor my stroll. I sometimes get the urge of keeping my legs apart and walk. It isn’t funny though.
The spider’s query: what difference it makes to me? Damselfly wasn’t distressed, she knew it takes time. You will see all the beautiful around you. It’s a matter of aesthetics, she said. It’s what pleases the eyes.
I am sitting and tapping my legs. I search my memory to find any remnants of what I might have been. The past is a difficult matter but I must still try. The sun is hot and dripping heat. There aren’t many people on the street. A crow disembowels a dead rat. I am recalling a house that has no garden. Wait a minute there isn’t any house. Sure there is I tell myself. So it must be. I don’t like arguments. It is a small house in brick paint and creepers climbing the wall. The door opens to the forest. I am in the forest. Isn’t that a spider I see happily feeding on a damselfly? Or is it an antlion? What difference does it make?
In the forest by the bush lived a spider that spins its web. Late into the noon a damselfly got trapped in the net. The dainty fly was least petrified and asked the Orb if eating make him less happy. The spider reflected on the query and said he never thought about what he ate.
So here I am, begging has become my second nature. The moment I see someone approaching, I slouch a bit, exaggerate my limp and contort my face into gloominess that had reason to excite empathy. I though am concerned about my behavior since it has acquired a cloak of instinctiveness that I regret. I want to have a control, a say on how I approach a situation. I want to strategize, to study each individual’s worth before exhibiting my craft. I don’t want to waste my artistry of misery on philistines. I spent time in observing, collecting critical information –like for instance footwear can tell lot about the person. An old clean pair was sure sign of not only stingy but natural immunity to histrionics.
Damselfly was confident of her ability of guise. She asked if the wise spider doesn’t think an elegant creature like her should live more than a mere insect. The spider had begun to spin his web around her, making her immobile. Then the spider sat to ponder.
I am getting used to my desolate soul. I walk all day without much purpose. Sometimes a sight catches my fancy and I hang around the vicinity, meanwhile contemplating nothing. The thought of what I wear or where I go don’t seem to be my concern. It really didn’t matter as long as I get something to eat. I stand next to an eatery, the sight exaggerate my senses. The anguish is real and difficult to ignore by humane. This is what I like, to be around food. But I am asked to move; a guard came and pushes me aside. He hit me with stick and tries to kick me. I trip sideways. Tricked him didn’t I. He warns me of dire consequence. I defecate in my trouser, it dribbles along my leg. I can feel it go all the way down. I enjoy it, so I smile, though it does labor my stroll. I sometimes get the urge of keeping my legs apart and walk. It isn’t funny though.
The spider’s query: what difference it makes to me? Damselfly wasn’t distressed, she knew it takes time. You will see all the beautiful around you. It’s a matter of aesthetics, she said. It’s what pleases the eyes.
I am sitting and tapping my legs. I search my memory to find any remnants of what I might have been. The past is a difficult matter but I must still try. The sun is hot and dripping heat. There aren’t many people on the street. A crow disembowels a dead rat. I am recalling a house that has no garden. Wait a minute there isn’t any house. Sure there is I tell myself. So it must be. I don’t like arguments. It is a small house in brick paint and creepers climbing the wall. The door opens to the forest. I am in the forest. Isn’t that a spider I see happily feeding on a damselfly? Or is it an antlion? What difference does it make?
