Standing idly by as Gregor Samsa slowly starves to death

The main light in my kitchen is one of those long fluorescent ones, with a deeply rounded plastic covering. During a housecleaning marathon this summer, I went to the trouble of removing the cover and cleaning out all the dead bugs that had christened it their final resting place

It remained fairly pristine until a month or two ago, when I noticed this rather large cockroach who had somehow found his way up into the fixture. The sudden realization that cockroaches come fully equipped for ceiling traversal isn’t exactly a welcome one. I poked curiously at the plastic covering, jarring it up and down slightly.

Startled, the insect anxiously ran a few laps inside the plastic perimeter before giving up in a defeated heap. The light covering curves in on itself in such a way that the roach could only crawl so far up the side before losing his grip and sliding back down to the bottom. Despite the impressive stucco dexterity, it seems that Mother Nature has neglected to sufficiently prepare the cockroach for smooth plastic surfaces.

For a moment, I considered my options. Should I set free my accidental detainee? I immediately realized how silly this would be, in light of my general pest control policy. The borders of my home are lined with insecticide and fortified with roach traps. If I came upon this very same cockroach crawling across my carpet, he would be sprayed, squashed, and flushed, no questions asked. I decided to just leave the poor bug to his own devices. After all, he had gotten himself into this mess, hadn’t he?

As the days passed, I made a habit of checking in on the hapless little fellow by rattling the light covering every so often. Each time, on cue, he would display a furious new resolve to escape from his plastic prison. It was almost as if I was sending him some cryptic sign that he might make it out this time if he just gave it one more go. I couldn’t help but think that, if God does exist, this must be what it feels like, to watch us trap ourselves in all our stupid mistakes—casually curious about our fates, but unwilling or unable to help or interfere on account of some self-imposed theological principle or technicality.

No, there would be no merciful act of God or man to save this cursed cockroach’s life—we had both forsaken him. Eventually, inevitably, the insect simply refused to respond to any more of my guilty poking and prodding. He was either dead now or devoid of any hope he once had, and that’s when I knew there was no difference between the two.