She makes her way through the place as though she owns it.
She watches leaves and blades of grass as they twitch and writhe in the gentle breeze, sees rainbow-hued droplets hanging precariously in the bushes above. She takes in the muted colours of the garden, and the fragrance of the warming foliage, the air no longer densely humid. Droplets still hang in the air, slowly dissolving into emptiness with the rising of the sun. Its rays bringing slivers of colour, effervescent splashes made to her immediate world.
The long walk has left her limbs aching. The ground is poor here. Great cavernous chambers pit the place, some seeming to be so deep as to leave one unable to return to the surface. She is aware that some of her friends have been transported to places where vast sparkling oceans lap the shores. She reflects sadly on the notion that she may well never see such a thing for herself, nevertheless she pauses briefly to wonder at the complex constructions all around her. The wind suddenly whips dead leaves like a spinning top. How lucky she is to be privy to the joys of savouring the nectar of the gods.
She listens to the long dead echoes of past events. She seems transfixed in some ethereal moment as she sifts through treasured memories. She feels the world around her in a way so few of her kind do. She bathes for a while in an ethereal moment. From this pleasant state of repose she slips, as so often happens, helter-skelter into a state of overwhelming analysis. How much value does she add to those around her? Are her experiences really objective? How much free will does she really have? How real is the universe, as she knows it? She wonders why it has fallen to her to have such a window, a window to look through, to view that which others cannot, and to never share her unknowable pondering of ‘I think, therefore I am’.
Such is the life of this particular insect.