Then Am I the Unhappy Fly

     When I close my eyes, I see spiders. Lithe and stringy limbs, moving through the web of their world, unimpeded by their home, meant to capture, trap, and kill. These spiders are beautiful, and in my mind, I  too am dancing across this web of peril, completely unaffected by its lethal nature.
     But when I open my eyes upon a mirror, the reflection within is not of a spider, but of a fly. A hideous fly, unwanted and prey to the creatures of beauty. And here I stand weeping, feeling tragic and hopeless. I am no more than a blemish, a creature meant to feed, not to be fed, a creature meant to be caught in this tangled web of torturous reality, not to be liberated by the gentle hand of mercy.
     Despite it all, I admire them, the spiders. I long to be them, to look as they look, to feel as they feel, to have a taste of their effortless beauty. They are thin and elegant, long and dainty. Every move they make, weaving their magnificent web, is with a grace that is perfect in its form, unachievable by a mere fly.
    And I am caught in this web, captured by this reality that I cannot begin to even grasp, but that I cruelly understand. I know that I am nothing but a worthless fly meant to be preyed upon by the kin that so surpasses me. I am hopeless, helpless, destitute and unsure, afraid to live for living has no purpose, no reason for a fly; it is but existence, not a life. I will never look upon a mirror without shame, without longing. I will always be less than, unworthy.
     But then I close my eyes, and when my drowsy lids slip shut, I see a world that is all my own. In this world, my hideous shape is transformed into that of an exceptional being, a being long and lean, and of colors deep and light, a true spider. And this is the world, and this is everyone. We are all beautiful, each of us, thin creatures of an easy elegance, natural. And we are dancing, descending along thin lines of thread and weaving the patterns of our world, intertwining our hopes, fears, dreams, desires, and insecurities into a tapestry of infinite complexity and harmonic union. We are delicate in motion, stunning and captivating, transfixed upon the wild and subtle gravity that is the aesthetics of it all. We are beautiful.
     The illusion falls through, is pealed away and I am left naked. Once again I see myself and shudder at the stark, unbidden face that stares back. It will always be this way. I will always be this way. This game will go on forever and I am forever trapped. Nothing can release me from the pain of being myself, of awaking every day to the truth of it all, the sadness that ensues. I will always be a fly and for flies there is no love.