“We’re all parasites, don’t you see?” said the flea.

The silverfish smiled.  It was already warming up to be a nice day.  A light haze was caught in the rising light. 

“You don’t believe me.  You’ve been sold to think we’re all special – that we’ve all got a purpose,” the flea exposited.  “But that’s just the thing – we’re not special – not you, not me, no one.  Because we have no purpose – we’re al just parasites: surviving. Sure, I’m just a flea – I suck blood off a dog’s rear – the parasitical nature of my existence is all too obvious,” here he waved his legs about widely, “but we all need – we all consume – we’re all a parasitical drain until we die.”

“I like to think of myself as a poet,” the silverfish sniffed, lowering his eyes self-assuredly.

“A poet? So? Poets are parasites too.”

“I provide poems.”

“Ok, great, kudos to you.”

“So,” said the silverfish, rolling the words over in his silver mouth, “I provide a service – the exchange being equal, my consumption and provision, I am not a parasite.  The dog does not itch on my account,” he added despite the impropriety of the comment – he just couldn’t help himself.

“Ha?” the flea expelled a surprised whisper of a laugh.  He quickly composed himself, “And what service does your poetry provide? Where is it when you are gone – what lasting good does it leave?”

A little elucidation, a little art, goes a long way; a pleasant thought, a clever insight, secretes itself into one’s psyche and nestles down to stay. And who knows, some day down the road it might just wake up and poke its head back out to say hello.  You never really know – but isn’t that kind of appealing – the wonderful chance of it all?”

“What? No. It all ends as it began only a dog is short some blood and little flakes of crusty black flea debris have sunk down into the carpet.  How is that worthwhile?”

“No one’s existence,” said the silverfish, “is limited to consumption.  One might visit an exotic land, engage in stimulating conversation or even write a poem.”

The flea had a bothered smile on his face.

“But those things aren’t real,” he said, “while you’re doing them you still consume and that consumption is your only lasting effect – it matters little where or with whom you consume – it is consumption none the less.”

“Yes, yes, you certainly seem to have cut right to the essence of existence, haven’t you – boiled it down to exactly what matters.”

“Yes” – the flea was suspicious, he shuffled his gangly legs in the loose warm dirt.

“So what keeps you going? Why consume?”

“Yes, that’s the sickest part of it all,” exclaimed the flea with pleasure.  There’s nothing else you can do – your sense of self-preservation prevents any impulses that might lead you to ceasing your cycle of consumption.  We are consumption – we are a virus – we are parasites!”

“Biologically, yes,” began the silverfish patiently, “we operate by the same essential principles of generational continuance – just like a virus, but that’s just life.”

The silverfish sniffled again and squeezed his eyes self-approvingly. “Existence isn’t life my little friend – it’s what you do with life.  You’ve accomplished a brilliant exposition of the composite parts, now just put them together.” The flea looked bewildered. “Oh, I’m so proud of you,” the silverfish continued, “you’re so close and you did it all on your own.”

The flea blinked bemusedly and while he sought an indignant reply the pleasant thought slipped through the hall of his head and bedded down somewhere in the back.