April 23rd opens its eyes
in multiple colors at once.
Not a spectrum,
not a rainbow,
but a fractured prism
held together by the trembling wings
of an insect
that should not exist
and yet insists on doing so.
This creature,
half mosquito,
half fly,
half something else entirely,
hovers in the air
like a question
that refuses to be answered.
It sees the world
in impossible hues:
greens that taste like metal,
reds that hum like engines,
blues that feel like fingertips
pressing lightly
against the back of your neck.
April 23rd is its vision,
its kaleidoscopic pulse,
its dizzying way
of stitching reality
into a patchwork of contradictions.
Because on this day,
mosquitoes do fly
but flies do not mosquito.
This is not science.
This is taxonomy rewritten
by a trickster god
with a paintbrush in one hand
and a magnifying glass in the other.
Mosquitoes fly
with intention,
with hunger,
with the thin‑needle purpose
of creatures that know
exactly what they want.
Flies, however,
refuse to mosquito.
They decline the invitation.
They reject the role.
They buzz in circles
of pure existential freedom,
unbothered by the rules
that bind their winged cousins.
April 23rd is a day
that understands difference,
that celebrates divergence,
that lets each creature
be exactly what it is
without apology.
The insect hovers,
its wings a blur
of shimmering contradictions,
and the world beneath it
shifts slightly,
as if adjusting its posture
to better receive
this multicolored truth.
April 23rd ends
with a soft buzz,
a flicker of wings,
a final reminder
that identity
is a spectrum
no taxonomy can fully hold.
