A white flurry of moths battering themselves against the floodlight. My mind is ringed by white circles of thought, like the moths, streaking and curving around the light. Every flight comes to an abrupt halt against the white burning barrier of injustice. At least they are foolish not to realise it. What is it that they cannot resist? Do they seek a promise - of warmth, of incredible beauty, of a happiness beyond the invisible, blinding boundaries?
I wonder how often I am like them, fatuous and suicidal? I struggle to pass up the temptations that life puts forth. I cant resist the enticement of pleasure which has so often been denied. I cant escape all these things that hurt. Throughout the Night I smack the glass, desperatly trying to get closer to that glory, that pride, that bliss. The Darkness walls my vision and I see myself from a surreal, privileged point of view. I imagine floating above it all as if to escape the bounds of life's trivialities.
Why does the evident self-immolation appear as an accomplishment to me? Why do I fancy this manner of seeking recongnition? The glory is only for me, short lived - just like me. Death does not appear dark. Its an alluring halo of light waiting for my embrace, to which I want to fly. But, unlike them death is denied to me and penitence takes over.
In the morning there is no glory, only dry husks and charred wings - an ashy residue of thoughts.
