While waiting on my mama recently to come out of a store, I observed two wasps in a brawl, or mating ritual, I’m not sure which. In either case, one wasp was left the victor and flew away freely while the other suffered a leg amputation and began to hobble around the sidewalk. I continued to watch as I waited, simply because these mundane events of life are calming to my overworked brain, and the injured wasp continued to stumble and eventually ended up in a sidewalk crack. My mama came out of the store about this time and I voiced my condolences to the wasp by offering to “write a witness statement” if needed while my mama insisted I get in the car before someone called the police on the “crazy lady” outside.
In light of recent events, I can relate to the trapped feeling of the wasp. Of course, he may have flew away right after I drove off. But the bugs we trapped in jars as children didn’t always fare so well. No, I’m not dying a slow, airless death. At least not that I’m aware of, but I am trapped. I have nowhere to go. That’s what it feels like. I’ve never felt so suffocated by the lack of choices before. Maybe the lack of realistic choices. That stick put in jars for the bugs….that’s what I’ve got. One end or the other. Neither end really offering an immediate, viable solution. No leaves in sight. I must’ve eaten all those when I was a younger, naive bug and I thought the leaves and air were endless.
Yup, that’s me. A bug trapped in a jar. I can see out, see where I need to be, what needs to happen, but I’m stuck in this jar and I can’t seem to make it happen. Time is running out I fear. I do fear that the time spent being trapped I will miss the meaningful parts of the little bug outside the glass. When I was the younger version, I would have flown away. Now, I fear I reached my peak and I’m stuck in the crack of life.