I am not a fan of spiders. By that, I mean that I am afraid of spiders, to an embarrassing extent. The only spider I ever killed was incredibly small. I found it on my bed in my apartment. At the time I was living alone and had just been broken up with, and I sort of had to kill it to prove to myself that I could do that sort of thing on my own. If necessary.
Cut to: A few days ago, I noticed a tiny red spider on the wall near my closet. It was in the crook where two walls meet, at eye level. I thought about killing it, but it was so small that I said to it, "I'll spare your life, if you promise you won't grow up to be a giant spider (or decide to hang out on my bed)." Maybe it reminded me of the poor little guy I'd killed before.
This morning, I noticed that the spider is still there, but it looks... smeared and dead, as if somehow it died of heatstroke, or combustion. My immediate (logical) conclusion was that somehow I must have killed it with my mind, even though I hadn't meant to do that. I spared that little guy-- had a benevolent attitude toward him--and he died anyway. (Kind of makes me think of the Clockmaker theory of God... not that I'm a god, not even to a tiny spider.)
Such is life.
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