The Spider and the Fly

"Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly..." "Oh what a tangled web we weave, when at first we practice to deceive."

I'm feeling irritated at the moment. I am not sure why. My day has gone well. When I get to thinking, and other people are trying to distract me, I feel irritable. I wrote about this before, but today I'm even more so. I am trying to write and can't! So I'm telling you that I'm irritated. Earlier, I lost something- AGAIN! I lost my debit card. After losing my purse twice, now I lose this! I called and cancelled it, of course, but this losing things is starting to get to me. My new card is ordered, and in the meantime I have to use cash. I am constantly checking if I have my purse, and keys and phone.

I don't fully understand it, but my mind just feels like it isn't completely paying attention to what it should. Its dull. Its distracted. Its the brain drugs, I'm sure. Even now, I can't seem to write a proper entry in my blog.

Here I sit at the bookstore, feeling that sanguine feeling - my brain is a syrupy, bloody mess of thoughts that were- thoughts that can't quite make it to my typing fingers. In this way, the drug is the spider, weaving lies at me of thoughts that seem believable, but which lie in the tangle of synapses that are my mind. I cannot believe the impedance of information that my supposed lack of thought creates.

What am I to do when I cannot believe the one thing that is supposed to never fail me? When do I begin to follow the singing of the drug in my dendrites, rather than the cooing psychoses in my ears?

This few days without those whispers calling to me has been sad. I need the fly buzzing in my ear, saying, "Oh, no no!" refusing to submit, yet she cannot help herself. She is gone, yet she is here. She is always here. Talking to me. Telling me unintelligible things; comforting me. She will be caught. She can only submit. She knows no other way. And she therefore will eventually cease to exist.

The spider dances across his webs, teasing those who might take a trip into his notation. "Come into my parlour..." he says. It is a soft, comfortable place to be, that web, and yet the fly falls in again. Her wings buzz, singing to me her song. Vibrating one dendrite, over and over, the others singing in synchrony. What is that she says? I don't know. She is telling me something again and again. I cannot understand her, as she drones to herself "Oh no no... Oh no no..."

The thoughts now coalesce into unison. A warm, soothing unison. A comfortable winging of churning thoughts. Down, down, down... into the parlour.