Alive
The fly in the exhaust fan is dead. I see its tiny black corpse illuminated through the dull light.
It is moving ever so slightly. What is it moving toward?
Perhaps it is resurrected, and it is plotting its escape.
I am not dead like the fly, but I feel alike to a dead body while I lie on the floor of the tub and watch it make its move.
The sharpness of the razor blade catches my eye, and I want to possess it; I want to hold it in my hands without bleeding. I am not afraid of bleeding, though, and that is frightening, yet not frightening at all.
The world is as it was yesterday and will be so tomorrow and the day next, with or without me. I reflect on that fact and find life funny and yet so cruel.
The fly moves further, but I think it has been dead all along.
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