The Banzai Chronicles

Outside the window behind my desk, I watch a large spider do the slow work of reweaving her web. Though remarkably resilient, it's still tattered and full of debris brought by wind and rain. After a time, she retreats with one of her remaining meals. Soon she'll be back at it, and I can't help but thinking how futile her efforts are. She can't comprehend that the wind and rain will come again soon, that what she does now will be again undone. Even now the web shudders in the breeze as she huddles in the corner to eat.

Life feels like that.

I feel as helpless as the spider. What if she does know, and there just isn't a damn thing she can do about it, so she plugs ahead, because that's what spiders do? Is that better or worse?

I can feel sorry for myself about the littlest things, stuff that shouldn't matter but does. Move on. That spider should just wise up and build her web somewhere else. She should know this isn't working, that the conditions aren't right, that this isn't the time or place to build a web that will last. Yet she continues. "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results." Is she insane? Am I?

Maybe she doesn't care if it will last at all. She just needs a web, now, to give her the other things she needs. Who's going to look out for the spider if she doesn't look out for herself? And looking long-term isn't really the province of spiders anyway. I've looked long-term for years, decades now, until my eyes hurt and my vision blurred. I envy the spider that bit of oblivious instinct. Maybe she's living better than I am.