Fly and Flea

So it ends up that not all people experience the world through words.
Who knew?
Not I, said the Fly.
But the Flea was all like: With me, the trip is visual; I see pictures behind my eyes.
Well, don’t you narrate the pictures? said the Fly.
Sometimes, but a picture says a thousand words, said the Flea.
The Fly disagreed, saying: Are we limited to a thousand words? No! We’ve got all the words in the universe.
All the pictures, too, interjected the Flea.
Huh, the Fly said, slipping into deep thought — It looks like my mind is not such a broadly applicable example of brainworkings as I supposed. If the Flea sees life while I hear it, mightn’t others smell or feel or hear it as music as opposed to prosetry? Perfectly viable hypothesis… What influences our thought processes to make them unique? Could I consciously decide to see or taste the world? It’s all very strange, thinking about other ways of thinking, trying to mold one’s thoughts into another, incongruous shape. What a trip it all is! I wonder what the Flea is thinking? What does life look like projected on his inner eye? Since I narrate pictures with words, perhaps he converts words to images… synesthesia… how’s that spelled? I see some words as photographic images like tree and wing; I smell some nouns, like trashcan and compost; I also feel some sounds in my bones, like when I hear the mewling of maggots or the swish of a swatter. Are these all associations, though? Are they all just muscle memories or does each reflect on the mode of thought in use at the time? Because I use words to organize my headspace and communicate, does that mean I remember mostly in words? Maybe. My most vivid memories are visions with inside feelings, a hint of olfactory sensation, a touch of tactile firings and bitlets of conversation. Interesting… How will the Flea’s testimony add up? —
Hey, Flea, said the Fly.
The Flea was caught up in a daydream, imagining a whole metropolis riding the belly of an Irish Setter, the follicle-towers shining in the sun, fleas of all inclinations living in harmony, marching or meandering any place that strikes their fancy, maybe through the well-tended, sprawling landscape of the feeding grounds, where the skin is thin and translucent, glowing pale pink with rivers of the darkest red a flea could dream of…
Hey, Flea! said the Fly, louder.
Yes, Fly, said the Flea, languorously.
I was just thinking about the nature of memory and perception and, suppose that you and I are looking back on this moment any length of time from now, how would our recollections differ on the basis of our established thought processes? What will we each experience in our retrospective, respective mind’s eyes? What do you think? asked the Fly.
But the Flea was distracted from the Fly’s suppositions by the play of light on his infinitely mirrored eyes.