The Beetle

As I write this, the buzzing and tapping noises outside my window goes on. Tirelessly, the little (though it's rather big for its kind) flying critter continues its relentless, or should I say desperate, assault on the invisible wall that is all that divides it against what it seeks. The light.

It's hard to determine what it represents. A battering ram against the walls of Jerusalem? Or a cold, hungry hobo trying to find a charitable host for the night. If exoskeletons could bruise (I don't really know) I'd say it's pretty battered up by now. The tapping has stopped and I see the faint shape of the beetle crawling about aimlessly on the window ledge, catching its beetle-breath.

It's better that it stays out, and so I leave the window closed. If by sheer will and miracle it managed to break through the glass, it would still have to contend with the rotating blades that hang from the ceiling and guards the light.

And even if it somehow maneuvers its way through, the light itself, the very thing that it seeks, would burn it.