Dawn, Perhaps.
I am the object of desire to the entomological collection of some God. The insignificance inherent to my ephemerality makes me, in his eyes and perhaps mine, a mere insect and although it is of colossal audacity to consider myself worthy of the collection of some deity, I do believe so. I conjecture myself as a target to divine collusion.
There are several ways to cease the life of an insect retaining its body intact in order to add it to any exhibition that its owner so chooses.
Just as a keen collector who injects pure alcohol in the abdomen of a butterfly – so that it dies without damaging the beauty of its wings – he inoculates me with this animic state which spreads throughout my body and defiles my soul, originating the morbigenous decline of my will. But unlike the intended, I do not simply fall asleep peacefully as a moth placed in a freezer. I do not refuse to die, however, I do not accept the beautiful perishing forced upon me. I wither slowly but I take with me the beauty and the virtue, like an insect that struggles against the cold glass container which captured it – I break the wings, lose the colour, crush the interest.
I interrumpt the marasmus of the first rays of light, the drops of my ruby faith suprass the heavenly weeping. Each carefree incision spilled rivers of silent screams resonating in my very core, every imperfection left by them was by me congratulated as I beamed before the god’s frustration. I was no longer wanted – by him, by me.
I have never been a pleasant specimen, anyway.
