There's been a ladybug on a wall in the red bathroom for weeks now, maybe longer. I think it's dead. It hasn't moved at all since I first noticed it in place.
It doesn't really fit. The ladybug is more orange than red, so it doesn't match the wall color. I keep thinking I should go over and see if it's alive, but surely it couldn't last that long without motion – without food – without water? And besides, what if I knocked it off the wall? It may not fit in the bathroom, but I now visit the same stall everytime I visit this bathroom.
What if it's moved? What if it's gone? What would it mean? How did the ladybug arrive there anyway? And long has it been there? And how did it die (if it's really dead) stuck to wall of the cinnamon scented bathroom?
And how does life leave anyway – and how can the dead be beautiful?
I cannot see the lifeless seashells and seastars and not admire their beauty. I love looking for shells at the shore – I love hunting through a broken graveyard.
People bury and cry over their dead dog and kitten. But we don't shed a tear for a woman murdered in cold blood, or the child that died of abuse. We don't even cry for the man who died in his sleep if we don't know him.
Isn't there something terribly wrong about that? That we would grieve over a critter, but not over a fellow member of humankind? Are we not worth more than the animals?
It's a bit morbid of me, I suppose, to have these queries, but isn't it natural to fascinated by that which is unnatural? Shouldn't we live forever?
|image from http://frederikm.deviantart.com|