Flying With The Flies

Fibrous six-legged flies, hectically, and anxiously searching upon the squared pattern of the table-cloth: they seem infected by some strange narcotics, which energise them with a ceaseless commotion: — what are they looking for? —do they know? —nothing visible to the human-eye! —do they possess some extra sensorial qualities unknown to humans? —are they of superior intelligence, eclipsing our pretended one? their unpredictability, their acrobatic motions, and contortive legs, are exhausting my observance— there is no logic in their action! and thus, they are defeating my human rationality; yet, somehow, half-unaware, —I envy them! —for they have wings; for they can fly to whichever place they wish; whilst myself, I am confined within this body with no wings to fly: but I can fly—I can fly with the wings of my imagination! —exploring realms of far more fantastic beauty! where no rationality nor analysis and comprehension are necessary; for the Bliss transgresses the confinement of reasoning: for Beauty can only be perceived without the mind, without the heart— but through the human-spirit.