The room I am destined to live in is small and round, like the inside of an egg. I suppose that makes me an embryo, a little slimy mass of life that is ugly until you remember that it will be something. Of course, now I have the responsibility of becoming something beautiful, lest all the work that went into making me be wasted. I want to laugh. I feel like being cruel.
I am so tired. My thoughts run in jumbles through the ruins of my brain. There is a window with a projection of the city, enhanced and exaggerated and hideous. Real windows went out of style years ago, when people realized that the city is ugly. The city is so ugly, a lumbering half-dead thing bent for the sky, without realizing it has no wings. An anthill of embryos, like myself. Working for what? Building to what?
If only people were ants. We would not have to think at all. We wouldn't miss art, wouldn't love beauty, wouldn't even strive to progress the realms of scientific capability. We would only work, for one purpose, and if we died it wouldn't matter. When ants die, no one mourns them. I'm so tired of mourning for people I don't know.
But it is not our destiny to be ants. We were made to be slimy, vulnerable, soft and hideous until we tore ourself from our shells and emerged into the world, to be slimy, vulnerable, soft and hideous. Did it never end? Surely we are in another egg, we are just in another stage of development, from which we will one day emerge--we will someday hatch, into something beautiful. Perhaps into something that can take flight.