A fly

A dead fly lies dead on the white mantelpiece in front of me. Did it know, at the point of death, that it was going to die? Or did it acquiesce to the impregnable force that overcame its limbs, made them torpid, and the crush in its lungs? Did it even know, upon finding itself existing, at birth, upon first coming to experience the world, to feel the spaciousness and depth of perception, that it had been thrown into existence somehow, by some faceless director? Was it aware of its being in the world? I am a fly and am here. No, it probably did not ask those questions. Such questions are only privilege of us rational beings – a privilege to be endured.

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