The Fall of the Beetle

I crawl on the outside of the window more free than he, trapped in a penthouse. Worming upward. 20 stories is not high enough for me. He sits on the ledge inside thinking: This is too high. It is too close to God and he must now make me miserable. 

How did he overcome the solitude previously? I wonder. Was it because he had an illusion to look forward to? And what will become of his solitude when he realizes there is no end? There is an improper molecule in his heart which craves isolation, yet loathes emptiness. I’ve watched.

Now I reach for more. Alone on the glass. Not looking downward toward my death, but reaching upward toward the end of the brick. What will I do after the brick when there is nothing else there, after the last brick has been reached? Well, I suppose I can look down now.

I am plunging to my death.

The old man on the other side of the glass watches enviously as my slight insect body spreads its wings. An unnoticed death will soon occur, he must think as I pass him by. Well I have reached what I desired all the way at the top. But he is stuck inside that glass, motionless.

Why God, are you so cruel, that you give me what I ask? I do not know what I desire; only you know that truth. And why do you think I am capable of sustaining such a mangled heart? It pains my soul to see my heart so ruined, yet my body cannot free itself. I am trapped below the glass, looking up and seeing black.

Is this all there is God? I desire more. Fill the empty spaces in my soul, and if the answers lie in Hell so be it. I will drill through the grounds of this illusion from Heaven itself, and swim through the blistering answers of the inferno. But along this journey all I ask is to have an unreachable goal. Because what is there to do when there is no more up?