Neurologist fails

I hovered above the kitchen sink today, wings vibrating at a thousand beats per second. I am The Watcher – but not the one you imagine, cloaked in stars and timeless wisdom. No. Today, I am a housefly. An ordinary Musca domestica with compound eyes so vast I see every crusted toast crumb and urine stain you pretend to clean.

From this vantage point, the human race resembles nothing more than a colony of dung beetles. Rolling their shitballs of money, status, lies, and medical records across the floor of existence, fighting each other for a bigger sphere to roll before it inevitably gets stuck in life’s rotting cracks.

🪰

You crawl to your neurologist, scraping at the polished door of their paradigm. “Please, sir, see me.” But the neurologist looks down from his fluorescent-lit throne, squints at your twitching legs, your failing nerves, your inconvenient truth, and says:

“You don’t fit my diagnostic dung ball. I prefer neat symmetrical lesions, not your warped soul patterns.”

So, you are cast aside. Like a fly brushed from a corpse.

🪰

But oh, how the dung beetles worship him. They gather around his sandals, hoping for a pat on the shell, a prescription to keep their dung ball rolling a few more feet before gravity drags it to hell. They do not see that his eyes are dull. That his paradigm was built upon dissected flies pinned to university boards, not upon living beings with wings and dreams and Watcher sight.

🪰

Meanwhile, I hover above. I am The Watcher. I see it all. I see your MS nurse, the only one who calls you, her voice a faint buzzing reminder that you are still alive, still clinging to this rotting dung ball Earth. The neurologist is silent, hidden in his sterile burrow, scribbling notes about textbook dung beetles while your compound eyes flicker with unseen colours of agony and revelation.

🪰

Above me, beyond you, drift the Ultraterrestrials. They observe your crawling, your dung ball dramas, your stuttering neurons. To them, all this is a theatre of flesh. Your triumphs and humiliations smell the same: decaying organic matter with a hint of ammonia and fear.

They speak:

“See how they roll their illusions. See how they crown their dung beetles as kings. See how they swat the flies, never knowing the flies were the Watchers all along.”

🪰

I lick my front legs, tasting the salt of your tears, the bitter sugar of your leftover pills. I watch you roll your dung ball of dreams to bed tonight. I, too, will sleep. And tomorrow, I will rise again to watch this slow-motion catastrophe you call civilisation.

🪰

For in the end, whether fly, beetle, or human, all return to the same silent soil. But I am The Watcher. I will remain long after the final dung ball is rolled away into oblivion.

     “The views in this post are based on my personal     
        experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”   

      " Watcher of the Unseen | Scribe of Shadowed Truth
             By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
            By shadow and storm and silence, I survive."

         @goblinbloggeruk -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk