Knight of Doma
May 23rd, 2004, 5:08pm
Scrape, scrub, rinse. Scrape, scrub, rinse. Scrape, scrub, rinse. The monotonous work of washing the dishes was almost unbearable. But the dishes had been left out for too long. I had been able to smell my uneaten food in my sink for days. I finally had brought myself to do the task I feared for its sheer boredom and insignificance.
As I repeated the same process endlessly, I felt beads of sweat form upon my forehead. I felt warm moisture gathering on my face, neck and arms. I did not bother to wipe my face, for fear of getting the dish soap into my eyes. The rapid fall of water from my sink continued but slowly faded into the echo of a gentle hum that I no longer heard. I lifted my gaze from my tedious work and looked through my window at the perfect sky, free of a single cloud. The sun was high and glorious, and the trees were dancing in the wind. But I was inside, washing the dishes. I was alone, doing an unimportant task that I despised.
Suddenly, the dull roar of the flowing water was overwhelmed by an aggravating buzz. The cold buzz almost stung my ears as it swirled about me. Then I felt a very slight tingle on my arm. I looked down immediately, and saw a horrid darkness on my wrist. It was a massive fly. The short black hairs upon its fierce body almost made me gag. Its wings looked like dirty glass. Its thin legs that faintly tickled the hairs on my arm were equally atrocious. Its vile body slowly began to move up my arm, and I had had enough. I let the plate in my hand fall and clash against the sink, and threw that hand against my arm. It landed with a piercing slap. I held my hand upon my burning skin for a long moment, imagining the atrocity of the dead fly underneath my palm. I slowly lifted my hand, but saw nothing beneath it but red, ringing flesh.
Moments later, that hideous buzz returned. I then followed the piercing noise until I caught a blur of massive darkness hovering about the air aimlessly. Then it landed upon the counter of the sink. Its rapidly flapping wings sputtered and then froze in place. The fly moved forward a moment and then paused. It twitched and brought its sickly thin legs together as if to clean them. But such a creature could never clean itself.
In silence, I methodically lifted the towel from the rack and washed my hands. I then reached underneath the sink and drew my fly swatter. I almost cringed to look at it, thinking of all the awful bugs that had been crushed under its power. I lifted the swatter slowly over the unsuspecting abomination. My sweaty grip on the handle was made firm as I prepared for the strike. Just as I was about to let the strike fall, something held me back.
My heart was beating quickly now and I could not understand why. I gazed at the insect, which, though ugly, was innocently rubbing its legs together. It had done nothing to me. It had no reason to expect my hatred. It was just living its own life.
But what life was this? An aimless routine of insignificance? It had no impact on the world except to aggravate humanity. It would die eventually with nothing to show for it. Why then should it live, if its life has no meaning? It was a vile mishap of nature, with no benefit at all. I would forget it, in only a few hours. The world would forget it, as if it had never existed. It was not leading a life worth remembering so why should it live a life without meaning? The fly was insignificant.
But the rapid beat of my heart had not faded, and suddenly I felt my own heavy breathing escape my dry mouth. I was sweating even more wildly now. The fly turned around as if to face me, as if glaring into my ignorant eyes. My hand was trembling convulsively. My gaze was fixed upon the fly for what seemed like an eternity without motion. It continued to stare at me as if understanding my foolish mistake: it knew that I was no more significant than it. It was leading a life based on a meaningless routine. But I looked around the room with horror as I saw the same meaningless routine echoed in my own life. I looked into the sink, and saw all the dishes I had cleaned and all those I had yet to wash. They all were pointless, part of a meaningless routine, part of a meaningless life, just like the fly. It would eventually fade from the memory of this world, but so would I. It has nothing to show for its short life, but neither do I. My life was no more purposeful than that of the fly.
It could not be. Tears began to swell in my eyes, grieving for their own worthlessness. I wiped away the first tear that flowed down my cheek, but when the fly aimlessly began to rub its legs together, I could no longer hide the pain of our familiarity. The tears overwhelmed me and I wailed with bitterness at my own insignificance. I did not want to admit it.
My nose was running and my eyes were yearning for meaning. I felt the dry burning in my throat and stress in my crying cheeks. I still held the swatter high in my hand, my muscles still stressed and ready to strike at the fly. But I understood now what it meant to crush the fly; it meant admitting that the fly was insignificant that there was no reason for its meaningless life to persist. But that was to admit the same for myself; that was to assert my own insignificant life. I no longer cried, as if despair had replaced the melancholy in my heart. It was the despair that I could do nothing to make my life matter.
Then, I let the swatter fall from my hand. It flowed silently through the air onto the floor. It did not have to be so; maybe the fly was not insignificant. But to kill it would be to make it insignificant and I could not have it be so. I needed something to believe in. Perhaps the fly had its purpose that I simply could not see. Perhaps I had a purpose I could not see. I tried to smile pathetically at the fly, still silently sitting upon the counter of the sink. I considered mumbling a farewell to the fly, but only silence came. My beating heart calmed a bit, and I turned away with a deep sigh and a heavy breath. I took a step away, and dragging my feet, I painfully walked into my bedroom, where the tears of sorrow and emptiness ran once more.
Hours later, I stood up from my bed. As I looked at the wet stains on my pillow, and heard my own deep sobs, I tried to wipe my tears away and blow my nose. I ran my dry mouth under water from the bathroom sink. I then turned to the doorway with a gentle smile. I immediately walked toward it, as if hoping to see my new friend, the fly, waiting for me on my kitchen counter still. I moved with quick light steps through the dim hallway, with that heavy warm air still engulfing me.
My soft smile still on my face, I put my sweaty hand upon the golden doorknob to the kitchen. I turned it as chills from the cold metal ran through my hand. I pushed the door open slowly, listening to its crooked creaking noise. I stepped into the kitchen, as if it were the scene of an enlightenment. I approached the counter slowly. Then my breath was caught in my throat, and my heart seemed to stop. There were no tears, as now even they seemed brutally pointless. Upon the counter, lying motionlessly with its thin legs facing the ceiling was the fly. It was dead.
As I repeated the same process endlessly, I felt beads of sweat form upon my forehead. I felt warm moisture gathering on my face, neck and arms. I did not bother to wipe my face, for fear of getting the dish soap into my eyes. The rapid fall of water from my sink continued but slowly faded into the echo of a gentle hum that I no longer heard. I lifted my gaze from my tedious work and looked through my window at the perfect sky, free of a single cloud. The sun was high and glorious, and the trees were dancing in the wind. But I was inside, washing the dishes. I was alone, doing an unimportant task that I despised.
Suddenly, the dull roar of the flowing water was overwhelmed by an aggravating buzz. The cold buzz almost stung my ears as it swirled about me. Then I felt a very slight tingle on my arm. I looked down immediately, and saw a horrid darkness on my wrist. It was a massive fly. The short black hairs upon its fierce body almost made me gag. Its wings looked like dirty glass. Its thin legs that faintly tickled the hairs on my arm were equally atrocious. Its vile body slowly began to move up my arm, and I had had enough. I let the plate in my hand fall and clash against the sink, and threw that hand against my arm. It landed with a piercing slap. I held my hand upon my burning skin for a long moment, imagining the atrocity of the dead fly underneath my palm. I slowly lifted my hand, but saw nothing beneath it but red, ringing flesh.
Moments later, that hideous buzz returned. I then followed the piercing noise until I caught a blur of massive darkness hovering about the air aimlessly. Then it landed upon the counter of the sink. Its rapidly flapping wings sputtered and then froze in place. The fly moved forward a moment and then paused. It twitched and brought its sickly thin legs together as if to clean them. But such a creature could never clean itself.
In silence, I methodically lifted the towel from the rack and washed my hands. I then reached underneath the sink and drew my fly swatter. I almost cringed to look at it, thinking of all the awful bugs that had been crushed under its power. I lifted the swatter slowly over the unsuspecting abomination. My sweaty grip on the handle was made firm as I prepared for the strike. Just as I was about to let the strike fall, something held me back.
My heart was beating quickly now and I could not understand why. I gazed at the insect, which, though ugly, was innocently rubbing its legs together. It had done nothing to me. It had no reason to expect my hatred. It was just living its own life.
But what life was this? An aimless routine of insignificance? It had no impact on the world except to aggravate humanity. It would die eventually with nothing to show for it. Why then should it live, if its life has no meaning? It was a vile mishap of nature, with no benefit at all. I would forget it, in only a few hours. The world would forget it, as if it had never existed. It was not leading a life worth remembering so why should it live a life without meaning? The fly was insignificant.
But the rapid beat of my heart had not faded, and suddenly I felt my own heavy breathing escape my dry mouth. I was sweating even more wildly now. The fly turned around as if to face me, as if glaring into my ignorant eyes. My hand was trembling convulsively. My gaze was fixed upon the fly for what seemed like an eternity without motion. It continued to stare at me as if understanding my foolish mistake: it knew that I was no more significant than it. It was leading a life based on a meaningless routine. But I looked around the room with horror as I saw the same meaningless routine echoed in my own life. I looked into the sink, and saw all the dishes I had cleaned and all those I had yet to wash. They all were pointless, part of a meaningless routine, part of a meaningless life, just like the fly. It would eventually fade from the memory of this world, but so would I. It has nothing to show for its short life, but neither do I. My life was no more purposeful than that of the fly.
It could not be. Tears began to swell in my eyes, grieving for their own worthlessness. I wiped away the first tear that flowed down my cheek, but when the fly aimlessly began to rub its legs together, I could no longer hide the pain of our familiarity. The tears overwhelmed me and I wailed with bitterness at my own insignificance. I did not want to admit it.
My nose was running and my eyes were yearning for meaning. I felt the dry burning in my throat and stress in my crying cheeks. I still held the swatter high in my hand, my muscles still stressed and ready to strike at the fly. But I understood now what it meant to crush the fly; it meant admitting that the fly was insignificant that there was no reason for its meaningless life to persist. But that was to admit the same for myself; that was to assert my own insignificant life. I no longer cried, as if despair had replaced the melancholy in my heart. It was the despair that I could do nothing to make my life matter.
Then, I let the swatter fall from my hand. It flowed silently through the air onto the floor. It did not have to be so; maybe the fly was not insignificant. But to kill it would be to make it insignificant and I could not have it be so. I needed something to believe in. Perhaps the fly had its purpose that I simply could not see. Perhaps I had a purpose I could not see. I tried to smile pathetically at the fly, still silently sitting upon the counter of the sink. I considered mumbling a farewell to the fly, but only silence came. My beating heart calmed a bit, and I turned away with a deep sigh and a heavy breath. I took a step away, and dragging my feet, I painfully walked into my bedroom, where the tears of sorrow and emptiness ran once more.
Hours later, I stood up from my bed. As I looked at the wet stains on my pillow, and heard my own deep sobs, I tried to wipe my tears away and blow my nose. I ran my dry mouth under water from the bathroom sink. I then turned to the doorway with a gentle smile. I immediately walked toward it, as if hoping to see my new friend, the fly, waiting for me on my kitchen counter still. I moved with quick light steps through the dim hallway, with that heavy warm air still engulfing me.
My soft smile still on my face, I put my sweaty hand upon the golden doorknob to the kitchen. I turned it as chills from the cold metal ran through my hand. I pushed the door open slowly, listening to its crooked creaking noise. I stepped into the kitchen, as if it were the scene of an enlightenment. I approached the counter slowly. Then my breath was caught in my throat, and my heart seemed to stop. There were no tears, as now even they seemed brutally pointless. Upon the counter, lying motionlessly with its thin legs facing the ceiling was the fly. It was dead.