Like spring flies the days buzz past me; irritating but intriguing. I swat the air wildly, not knowing why. One strikes my open hand. My fingers close immediately around the mass of senseless energy. The vibration stops. I look, because I must. A sound larger than itself heralds the fly’s escape. Out of habit, I wave it away. It’s the downtrodden and the rich who have identity. Not me. Plastered against my palm, the fly is oppressed; suffocated by the world. When my hand opens, prosperity is granted; freedom to go where it likes, to pursue its preference, to try its wings. The others are me; not oppressed, but not able to fly. For the sake of a wrinkled wing or defective leg that impedes take-off, they are doomed to maneuver among vagaries. Undefined by oppression or wings, goals remain unclear, paths are left un-chosen, and life eludes. The irritating buzz comes close and again I strike the transparency.
Like spring flies the days buzz past me
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abrasho 
beautifully reflective. Hope I see you again soon.