Wingless Bugs

It always astonishes me how the minds of most people are filled up with banality.

They revel in daily habits, proudly and without hesitation. They are like small ants, walking endlessly the dirty ground, looking for crumbs of bread and rubbish to bring back to their home, carrying weight many times heavier than themselves, delving their tunnels underground or building short towers of sand and earth. 

I look at them with pity. Has an ant ever looked up to see the sun? I wonder if they even know about the sky. When they spot something large, they just flee in fear of it. Their little world, so small and so frail, ready to crumble under the footstep of anyone, hardly looks worthy of anything, from my looking spot. 

They have no fantasy. They never risk, they never walk far from their safe den, they never dream or if they do, they deny their visions as worthless illusions. They look at their world and smile, and think they are happy. What do they know about rivers and oceans, about clouds and stars? 

Thus their life is spent, in the continuous repetition of days, without any meaning or end but just being alive. 

I look at them unfolding my wings, and ask myself why I always fly alone. They have long lost their wings. They thought them useless.