Midlife crisis of a housefly

I am someone that wants to write and share it with the public to entice a reaction. Be it positive or negative doesn’t really matter, as long as someone says something about it.

I think it closely resembles a drug addiction, a feeling of need to capture some thought in my mind on paper and put it out there in a way that shouts “look at me, look at what I did!” so that I can experience the high when someone responds. And when there is nothing to write and nothing to share a kind of cold turkey kicks in. A withdrawal of the mind that leaves the ego tapping its vein desperately searching for its next fix.

Today I am sitting in my parents’ dining room looking out the window at the fog rolling in over our garden. My mind is racing at a hundred miles an hour trying to come up with something special to write down about the mystical beauty of the barely visible trees and bushes. Against the window is a tiny fly buzzing with a drunken determination, trying its best to reach this magical garden where anything might be possible, although probably some spider web camouflaged in a near by tree is a less positive outcome than it might have hoped for.

The point is that I want to write down my thoughts, but they seem scattered around my mind like the many toys I had as a child spread throughout my room. A chaos of interesting objects that each conjures up an instant flicker of untold possibilities before fading away like little sparks above a raging fire. Should I write about the adventurous fly or some fairy-tale creature hiding in the fog?

The closest I can describe the result of not knowing what to write when writing is all you want to do, is a feeling of having a severe stomach ache and needing to throw up, but for some reason your body is not yet ready to release the chaotic mess it has bubbling deep down. So the agony is there and the need to release as well, but the execution is that of a dry heave with nothing to show for it.

Let’s get back to the fly who since has given up its quest to reach the outer limits and has decided to lie down on its back for a rest. Exhausted it must have decided that looking up at the ceiling, dreaming of where life is leading it, was probably the only thing left for it to do. I imagine it having a midlife crisis at the ripe age of 14 days and 7 hours, dreaming of finding a big heap of garbage it could settle down on to impress all the young 7 day old lady flies with its success and and fame.

Then again it might just have been me swatting it while trying to find something to write about.

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