Once upon a time, there was a fly.
This fly was not what you might think of as an insect at all. This fly was an artist. This fly was looking for a muse. As this fly searched high and low for inspiration, it occurred to this fly that perhaps there was not only one muse, but many. So many muses in fact that they became almost like a storm of inspirations washing over him like rain. Swirling around him, as if inspiration itself was mist or fog or wind. How could one tiny fly be noticed in such a creative typhoon? So he became The Fly. And yet still the inspiration he sought eluded him. He longed to hear music. He heard only the dull hum of the storm in the distance. The Fly sat then and wept. For a long time The Fly remained still, and apart from quiet sobs, he was silent. He had nearly given in to despair. He had thrown three of his six legs into the air (of the other three, two held his head and the other, a cigarette).
Almost imperceptively the distant hum grew.
At first The Fly did not notice, but after a while the humming had become a buzzing. He was shaken from his ninety-six tears, and he raised his ninety-six eyes. He found himself in the very eye of that distant storm. He had been over-taken by the very hurricane he had been chasing. The rolling clouds made the sky dark above him. The wind was deafening. A throbbing hum he could feel under his wings. He was afraid. He curled himself into a tight ball and shut all of his eyes, hoping the tempest would pass quickly and leave him be.
Suddenly, all was silent. One by one, he opened each of his eyes. The storm was gone. The sky above him was bright and clear. He was surrounded by a legion of flies stretching their exhausted wings, shaking the dust from their wiry legs, whispering amongst themselves and blinking their eyes at him. One hopped toward him out of the multitude.
Her voice was high and sweet.
“We’re happy you finally stopped. We have chased you now for a long time. Why are you crying?”
“I can’t find my muse.”
All the flies around him laughed. But their laughter was kind.
“You are a foolish fly aren’t you” she said. “Did you not hear? We’ve all been chasing you. Don’t you see? You’ve only been using two of your wings. You have four. Two for lifting you up. Two for moving you forward.. if you don’t use all four, you fly in circles or crash.”
The Fly smiled then and flicked away the last of his tears. He knew he was not alone. He stretched out his four wings. He knew now there was no storm.
There is a swarm. There was no muse to chase. Only other flies like him.