(no subject)
Riding home on the bus, I stared at the faces of the people walking down the street, seeing the tired emotions I felt reflected in their end of the week expressions. In my closer peripheral, a speck of green caught my eye. At a stop, a tiny aphid had landed on the outside of the window. No doubt mistaking the grime for food.
As the bus picked up speed, I watched the creature hold on for dear life as its fragile wings were pulled by the wind. I was impressed by the small guy's endurance powers, finding how to reposition his legs for the best grip. As we slowed down, I waited, expecting him to flutter off, but he dazedly stumbled along the window, pausing and testing himself. "What a stupid little fucker," I thought, wondering why he didn't use his chance to escape.
As the bus started up again, it hit me. It wasn't that he didn't want to fly off, get away from this force that was too much for his little body to handle. He couldn't. The wind has damaged his wings to the point that they no longer did their job. Though he had held his ground and kept himself alive through the toughest battle of his life (I couldn't tell you the life span length of an aphid), he was now too weak to save himself. I watched him hold on, seeing the fibers of his wings rip away in the speed of the wind. I was sure I was about to see the last moment of life this poor guy would experience, but my bus stop came as he held on tight.
As I walked with the wind cutting my face, whipping my bangs haphazardly around, I was sad, knowing no matter how strong the aphid held on, his wings would never be what they once were. Was there a point where he could have chosen to release the window and fly on his own, catching himself mid-gust in order to keep himself from smacking dangerously into impending doom, and flying, safe and free? Perhaps not. Perhaps the moment he latched onto that window was the beginning of his end.
I won't know. I got off the bus before his journey was over. Maybe the bus rolled to a stop right up against a tree branch which had grown out over the curb. Maybe he's sitting on a leaf somewhere, nursing his wounds. I suppose the nice thing about being a bug is not enduring post-traumatic stress disorder.
As the bus picked up speed, I watched the creature hold on for dear life as its fragile wings were pulled by the wind. I was impressed by the small guy's endurance powers, finding how to reposition his legs for the best grip. As we slowed down, I waited, expecting him to flutter off, but he dazedly stumbled along the window, pausing and testing himself. "What a stupid little fucker," I thought, wondering why he didn't use his chance to escape.
As the bus started up again, it hit me. It wasn't that he didn't want to fly off, get away from this force that was too much for his little body to handle. He couldn't. The wind has damaged his wings to the point that they no longer did their job. Though he had held his ground and kept himself alive through the toughest battle of his life (I couldn't tell you the life span length of an aphid), he was now too weak to save himself. I watched him hold on, seeing the fibers of his wings rip away in the speed of the wind. I was sure I was about to see the last moment of life this poor guy would experience, but my bus stop came as he held on tight.
As I walked with the wind cutting my face, whipping my bangs haphazardly around, I was sad, knowing no matter how strong the aphid held on, his wings would never be what they once were. Was there a point where he could have chosen to release the window and fly on his own, catching himself mid-gust in order to keep himself from smacking dangerously into impending doom, and flying, safe and free? Perhaps not. Perhaps the moment he latched onto that window was the beginning of his end.
I won't know. I got off the bus before his journey was over. Maybe the bus rolled to a stop right up against a tree branch which had grown out over the curb. Maybe he's sitting on a leaf somewhere, nursing his wounds. I suppose the nice thing about being a bug is not enduring post-traumatic stress disorder.