What is it like to be the lonely fly on the wall? A black speck, both a living creature and a pest to the giants living in the building. But who really knows my purpose? There is a phrase that means to be unseen and unheard, but in reality am I not always heard and seen? And once I am noticed, why do the giants wish for my death? Why is it that I cannot coexist with the world and not have it wish for my demise? I will not be a bother, all I really want is a few crumbs of food, anything will do, and I will stay out of everyone's way. What a cliche, I must say, it is that I must be "on the wall". Some days I just wish to go outside. But why do the giants of the domicile watch me as I suffer at the window? Do we all not just wish for a bit of help? A gateway to freedom is obtained by the simple opening of a window. And when I escape from the darting tongues of the frogs, the killer rain, and the hot sun, why is it that the giants won't offer me a day of shelter? One day out of my short, short life is all I ask, to become the fly on the wall with a moment's refuge.
The fly on the wall, unseen and unheard. I've made my cries and my pleas known. No longer am I the fly on the wall, my voice is heard, my wings beat strong, and maybe now the giants will give their sympathy to a tiny speck that they would otherwise ignore. For we are all living beings, is a bit of help from one being to the next really too much to ask?
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