A beetle outside my window
moving confidently, decisively across the glass pane of the world,
moving with a sense of purpose, a bug on a mission,
as if knowing exactly what he's doing and where he's going.
Or does he?
Perhaps he's all instinct at work.
Impulse. Movement for movement's sake,
propelled by biological drives too deep for him to fathom,
programmed by nature to appear rational and intentional.
Maybe he doesn't have a clue what he's doing,
or why he's doing it.
Maybe he's just doing what he's gotta do,
the question of fate or free will never crossing his buggy brain.
So musing, I turn back to the presidential debate.
First posted: October 24, 2020
