I'm afraid of bugs...
... but today I altered the destiny of one of these.
I stood at the back door of the office and watched this little beetle writhing. Suffering? Mating? Scratching its back? I don't know the biology of inter-species interference. He was turned on his back, the orange underside of his leg segments gyrating. Instinct? Desire? What does he want? His back arched up and down, his head raising up and down, the leg segments still orange and gyrating. He managed to spin his tiny self around in a circle in the two or so minutes I had been watching.
Having been afraid of bugs my entire life, I decide that I should remain uninvolved. I believed that nature would take care of this beetle. Besides, he probably wouldn't help me if I was writhing, mating, itchy, dying, or suffering. This is not a character flaw on behalf of the beetle. I don't judge him negatively for the unlikelihood of his helping me. It's nature and nature will take care of this beetle.
But, I think to myself, if he could help me, would he? I'm afraid of him, sure; but, as I'm often told by people who scoff at my fear of bugs, he's probably way more afraid of me. I'm a fucking giant compared to him... and I'm not particularly tall. Not being a black bear or some kind of land whale, I'm just small enough to see him but too big to cause him no alarm. This leads me to believe that I, the giant, am only adding fear to the insult of his injury. Lying on his back with all the orange and gyration he can only see some of me, but it's likely all he needs to see as he feels my footsteps shake the ground that has betrayed him.
I retrieve a piece of paper from Barry's desk and flip the little bugger onto his feet. His exoskeleton is a deep red or brown. The orange on the vulnerable underside of his leg segments is now unseen, non-existent, and he becomes another imposing, freakishly hard, and creepy bug for me to fear.
Perhaps the shock of being flipped onto his right side has confused him for a moment. I step back inside the office and watch him from the window in the door. He doesn't move. If I've killed him, I think to myself, at least I've done so with good intention. Was better off dying on the porch, orange and gyrating? Did the paper slice some biological insecurity hidden somewhere between the layers of his armor? Was he better left to bake frantically, the meaning of his life categorized slowly as he approaches his pseudo-conclusion?
But the moment passes and he crawls with that same strange gyration toward the door.
I stood at the back door of the office and watched this little beetle writhing. Suffering? Mating? Scratching its back? I don't know the biology of inter-species interference. He was turned on his back, the orange underside of his leg segments gyrating. Instinct? Desire? What does he want? His back arched up and down, his head raising up and down, the leg segments still orange and gyrating. He managed to spin his tiny self around in a circle in the two or so minutes I had been watching.
Having been afraid of bugs my entire life, I decide that I should remain uninvolved. I believed that nature would take care of this beetle. Besides, he probably wouldn't help me if I was writhing, mating, itchy, dying, or suffering. This is not a character flaw on behalf of the beetle. I don't judge him negatively for the unlikelihood of his helping me. It's nature and nature will take care of this beetle.
But, I think to myself, if he could help me, would he? I'm afraid of him, sure; but, as I'm often told by people who scoff at my fear of bugs, he's probably way more afraid of me. I'm a fucking giant compared to him... and I'm not particularly tall. Not being a black bear or some kind of land whale, I'm just small enough to see him but too big to cause him no alarm. This leads me to believe that I, the giant, am only adding fear to the insult of his injury. Lying on his back with all the orange and gyration he can only see some of me, but it's likely all he needs to see as he feels my footsteps shake the ground that has betrayed him.
I retrieve a piece of paper from Barry's desk and flip the little bugger onto his feet. His exoskeleton is a deep red or brown. The orange on the vulnerable underside of his leg segments is now unseen, non-existent, and he becomes another imposing, freakishly hard, and creepy bug for me to fear.
Perhaps the shock of being flipped onto his right side has confused him for a moment. I step back inside the office and watch him from the window in the door. He doesn't move. If I've killed him, I think to myself, at least I've done so with good intention. Was better off dying on the porch, orange and gyrating? Did the paper slice some biological insecurity hidden somewhere between the layers of his armor? Was he better left to bake frantically, the meaning of his life categorized slowly as he approaches his pseudo-conclusion?
But the moment passes and he crawls with that same strange gyration toward the door.