Living as a trapped firefly in a glass jar ,see through the walls, glass has such perfection in its finish, you can see the world pass by and look at the eyes that stare and study you .The light of your own burning would illuminate the faces of those bemused.
In joy you would flutter and skim in the cylindrical environment of your existence, measured in the volume of air it holds for you to breathe, the lid turned and screwed to the top, with punched holes to let air diffuse into the virtual lest it suffocates you to death. Existence has its seemingly humane layouts. It is designed not to kill you. It is designed not to let you live. It is designed to keep you in a loop that hangs between the two. Just as the fire fly dangles in the jar.
The fire fly now trapped in the jar hovers with unease, the escape, there must be one. The punched holes at the top are not large enough to let out a life from the clutches of an existence. The glass walls, transparent are an illusion of the sight and insight that is devoid of experiences from the real and there are no windows. Why would you need them when the delusion of an amorphous state kept you from making any?
The fire fly is dying in its trap, the glow for which it was encaged now diminished to darkness, the buzz of its wings in desperate attempts of jolts to the glass that with all it’s perfect finish now makes it slide on its edges. Existence would never let you take a firm grip on it, would firm its hold on you and tie itself around in a helical infinite that would make you squirm and wriggle to breathe in a whiff of life.
Eventually you would die not smothered but unwilling to breathe in through the shattered windpipe, that makes it painful to inhale whatever remnants of life you gathered in that jar.
The one escape: Shatter the jar.
