lauralyrics (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} lauralyrics) wrote,@ 2008-04-04 20:24:00 |
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Ah, the tinkling sound of ladybugs hurling themselves against the light fixture. I can appreciate their sense of desperation, their frustration as again and again they crash against cruel reality, and their perseverance--or is their stubborn refusal to accept the evidence before them, that wishing does not make the light fixture other than what it is, an artificial light source, merely?
I too have a sense of desperation, which renders me sympathetic to their plight. I too have crashed again and again against evidence I do not wish to accept. Despite most assiduous care and taking sick day after sick day, I become convinced in spite of myself...unlike the ladybugs. This most wretched cold will, most probably, never go away. The spring will never come, the daffodils will never flourish, and if the four horsemen were to come riding up, I should greet them by saying, "Well, finally! What took you so long?"
Some of the ladybugs have accepted their fate. They circle wearily across the floor, fold their little legs up, and stick their spoon in the wall. I attempt something similar: circling wearily from couch to bed and back; folding my arms across my chest as Egyptian mummies do; and earnestly praying for death. Or, you know, I'm not picky--how about clearing my head at least? I'd be happy with that. (On a side note, one of my colleagues recently broke his wrist, and that thought was, for a while, the only thing keeping me going. "Well, I might feel like warmed-over Death...but at least I don't have a broken wrist!" A few hours later, I suddenly realized that he was probably doped to the gills with painkillers, and all sympathy vanished. I attribute my sudden decline to that lowering thought.)
The tinkling has stopped. The ladybugs have either died or stopped trying. No, one of them is circling wearily across the floor. I'm going back to the living room to fetch my tissue box (I named it Bob; since we are developing a close acquaintance, I thought it should have a name) and then I'm going to bed.
I too have a sense of desperation, which renders me sympathetic to their plight. I too have crashed again and again against evidence I do not wish to accept. Despite most assiduous care and taking sick day after sick day, I become convinced in spite of myself...unlike the ladybugs. This most wretched cold will, most probably, never go away. The spring will never come, the daffodils will never flourish, and if the four horsemen were to come riding up, I should greet them by saying, "Well, finally! What took you so long?"
Some of the ladybugs have accepted their fate. They circle wearily across the floor, fold their little legs up, and stick their spoon in the wall. I attempt something similar: circling wearily from couch to bed and back; folding my arms across my chest as Egyptian mummies do; and earnestly praying for death. Or, you know, I'm not picky--how about clearing my head at least? I'd be happy with that. (On a side note, one of my colleagues recently broke his wrist, and that thought was, for a while, the only thing keeping me going. "Well, I might feel like warmed-over Death...but at least I don't have a broken wrist!" A few hours later, I suddenly realized that he was probably doped to the gills with painkillers, and all sympathy vanished. I attribute my sudden decline to that lowering thought.)
The tinkling has stopped. The ladybugs have either died or stopped trying. No, one of them is circling wearily across the floor. I'm going back to the living room to fetch my tissue box (I named it Bob; since we are developing a close acquaintance, I thought it should have a name) and then I'm going to bed.
