There comes a time in every human person’s life when one must reflect on the dreams held over from youth after they invariably don’t pan out, and ask the eternal, age-old question: Why is it dry and crusty?
Where did it’s head go?
How did it get out here into the open? I could have sworn I put it in the corpse pile with the other dead mice… have I lost control of my life?
I can’t seem to escape this dehydrated ex-mouse. It torments me, haunts me, secretly snags on my fall sweater and dragged around for hours until I notice its presence and return it to the dead mouse pile, only to repeat the cycle once more because I don’t learn from my fucking lessons like every good human person trying to Life. Everywhere I turn, there are reminders that my once vital and adorable dreams have withered and died, like my looks and the collagen in my skin. And, like youth itself, my dreams do not stand up to the test of time: falling woefully short (and short-sighted) and terrifyingly apparent in only the way the Internet knows how to remind us. Damn you, Al Gore.
What kind of shit-show is my life that iridescent flies are the highlight? Perhaps the gem-colored insect is the newest, more grounded dreams of adulthood; the latest iteration of my dreams on the heels of of a broken heart, portending some great catharsis on-scale with Krakatoa. The flashing, brilliant, considerably scaled-down re-imagining of what I had thought I had wanted for myself…
Was I so wrong? How could I have been so off the mark as to think what I wanted was really what I wanted and not the dreams of others? Lo, I did not want society’s mice dreams: I wanted dreams of the fly! The small, irritating, barely perceptible unless its on your food fly! Am I free? Have I broken from the chains the mouse has put on me and no longer seek to glorify all things cute and fuzzy? I AM NOT THE MOUSE.
I AM THE FLY.
(Fun Theon-cat fact: when Mommy discovered this Hessian Soldier of the Backyard, I was very proud. Gonna be real honest: I’m a macabre lady of the night when it suits me, and seeing this pre-murdered mousies’ struggle continue well past death gave me a strange comfort. It never ends, for any of us, and no one gets out alive. Sweet blissful other-side-of-nihilism. But really, nihilism is just a fucking gateway and for those of you out there who fucking think nihilism is now super cool because of a cartoon are missing the fucking point of nihilism *cough*neckbeards*cough*… whatever I’m moving on, it’s fucking fine. Go away.)