The fly in my room
It was afternoon the first time I heard that fly in my room. The place was bright, the air was circulating, and the breathing was… rare. And then it was night and I thought I would hear that little noise of wings beating again, but everything was silent.
It became a habit, the fly would disturb me with that infernal buzz during the day, and by night it would go sleep, and I would go sleep too. What’s the point of a fly disturbing you only during the day? All the flies I’ve met during my life I’d hear them only when it’s night, so why does this one has such weird behavior?
I might sound like Kafka, mumbling about a fly, discussing the significance of its ridiculously short life of no rationality, but it kind of connected me with the deep labyrinths of my mind. My rare breathing, crowded mind, heavy body. I felt like I was stuck in a cage whenever that buzz would start. And it would only start when I was at the pick of my anxiety.
I could maybe think that the fly was all an invention of my head, but one day, that little bitch came to me and sit right on the top of my hand, and it went away too fast. She wanted my attention. Provoke me, laugh at me, ask for help, spend the time, or maybe no purpose at all. Did you already forget that it has no rationality at all?!
So, I decided to end that miserable life, I ran after it like a sailor looking for a shining ring in the deeps of an ocean until I found it sitting in the window, incapable of going outside because of the glass. The headache and heavy breathing stopped for a while; the scene somehow looked funny. Stupid little fly... annoys me all day because she can’t go outside.
A glimpse of irony jumped in front of my eyes. Just like me, she can’t go outside. Although our concepts of ‘outside’ might vary, I and that miserable life might have something in common. Stuck in my own cage, a fly stuck in my room.
I could have just opened the window, so why I didn’t? Why did I let that trouble keep buzzing in my head?
Maybe all the answers lead to comfort. The feeling is no comfortable, but perhaps the idea of having it is more comforting than not having any feeling at all. It kept me busy, it gave me a reason to feel angry, a purpose. A purpose stronger than a tangible, materialistic goal, that would lead me somewhere, a gut.
What’s so comforting about having a gut that leads you nowhere?
Maybe all the answers lead to a misinterpreted feeling or action, laziness. A conscious action of your unconscious asking you to do absolutely nothing, and just vanish… like dust in the wind. And you’re consumed by fear so big that anything more than nothing is threatening to you.
Even that little being wants to break away, find a crack, and scape, but me… I just want to stay in my room. When did I become more cowardly than a fly, when did a fly become more courageous than me?
The room seems quieter now, no buzzing, not even a single noise. I open my window, I let the fresh air come in. If the fly enjoyed the opportunity to leave or simply just died by getting to the end of its little life… I think I’ll never know. Maybe other flies might come to visit me now that the window is open, but at least I’ll be able to ask them to tell me her story. At least the window is open.
- Dying Chronicles of My Life (Sabrina - Crônicas Moribundas da Minha Vida)
