The Fly and I
He keeps buzzing the window, been doing it all morning and I've been sitting here watching, waiting, wanting out--for it, I mean. The window is open just below him and by just a few inches, just a few inches beyond its visioin is all. It's where he entered from! Why does he not see it? It just follows the same discourse, pattern, hour after hour, left to right, across the top of the window, drops down an inch or so, back up a few more inches, across, then down, up, across, then down again, up, until he reaches the far side then it skims along the top again, back to the far left, the beginning--repeat, across, down, up, across . . . I'm tired of watching, feel sick, sick and fucking tired of watching and I just want to put it out of its misery, but I feel stuck, unable to leave this alone, caught between hoping it'll get the impetus to go beyond its imaginary boundary, or just ending it altogether with one quick benevolent swipe so that I can at lease leave here and get on with something more productive . . . yet knowing I won't.