The Spider and the Fly by Mary Howitt

“Will you step into my parlor?” said the spider to the fly;
“’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things to show when you are there.”
“O no, no,” said the little fly, “to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”

“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the spider to the fly.
“There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in.”
“O no, no,” said the little fly, “for I’ve often heard it said,
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed.”

Said the cunning spider to the fly, “Dear friend, what shall I do,
To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?
I have within my pantry good store of all that’s nice;
I’m sure you’re very welcome; will you please to take a slice?”
“O no, no,” said the little fly, “kind sir, that cannot be;
I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see.”

“Sweet creature!” said the spider, “You’re witty and you’re wise!
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf,
If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.”
“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for what you’re pleased to say,
And bidding you good-morning now, I’ll call another day.”

The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly fly would soon be back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready to dine upon the fly.
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing
“Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing:
Your robes are green and purple; there’s a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead.”

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little fly,
Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly flitting by.
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue;
Thinking only of her crested head — poor foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlor; but she ne’er came out again!

And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed;
Unto an evil counselor close heart, and ear, and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.

Beginnings

I never allowed myself to truly write down all that I've wanted to about trust, hope, and growing up. Like, my purpose in life or whatever. I'm not the first or last to ask this. Nor do I really need an answer. I love movies and what they have to say, but they give this misconception that you need to know what it is. But still, what have I done to help someone? Who have I truly helped, who is truly better off because of me? Who can actually say that they'll miss me when I'm gone, or won't forget the person I was even after years? What can I provide the world with? I'm just a girl who delights in the impermanent. Another possible commitment-complex in this culture of people that think they deserve and expect more for themselves than what they already have. I don't have any realistic ambitions. I'm impulsive and don't have the attention span for over anything over an hour, much less keep a goal in mind. It's too late for me to be a director or an actress or a photographer. My friends have already started on the paths to these careers, and their early start just gives them that much of an advantage. Not to mention all the talent I'm surrounded by, constantly filling me with wonder and simultaneously reminding me that there is always someone better than me out there. And let's face it, people sometimes accept bad actors if they're pretty, as if beauty can make up for talent. I can critique art but not compose anything meaningful, so even if I get a super-expensive professional camera, I won't know what to take pictures of. I can't even get myself to look into knitting, much less movie critiques to enlighten me on what makes a good film, or even to teach myself piano. I don't have the courage to ask for ballet classes, and I yell at people for being concerned with their appearance and reputation, yet I hypocritically do the same. At least I don't feel that a relationship is necessary for esteem or existence. I read and watch inspiring things, and yet the feeling of awe doesn't affect me enough to change the person I am. I don't have a sob story, dedication to anything, or talent. I have no self-control, which is why I'm piling my misery onto an anonymous reader rather than just keeping it to myself. I always wish to be a better person, but whenever an opportunity presents itself for me to become that person, I predictably react like I always do. At least I'm aware of it. All I can do is try.
I know I'm probably not going to be successful in the careers I hope for, but I'm not going to stop hoping. You pass by people on the street and wonder what they did to get where they are, if they're happy with their lives, and if they're not, what their hopes and dreams were and if they were fulfilled, and if these people can be part of your life, as friends or enemies or competition or rivals. I won't let myself relinquish my dreams without something equally satisfying in return, even if it's reality kicking in because it only hurts if you've held on to irrationality for too long.
Comparing the material in this blog to another blog that I love, I wanted to delete this entire blog. But then I checked out the archive and realised how many memories are in here that I'm not willing to forget. Too much love that is important to me even though I know nothing lasts, including myself. Maybe that's why I aspired to be an actress, to be remembered. Or why being a director appeals to me, that I can still speak through my creations and be one in trillions for them. But even the most skilled are forgotten and more deserving people have little voice and so it must go in the relentless blanketing of time.
Becoming an authour's out. You didn't cry reading this, I promise. But maybe I can get into casting. It's close enough in film for me to love, and most realistic. But I'm not going to settle for 'close enough' without trying, even later rather than sooner.