Short Story Of A Moth

Moths that do not fly by day are not properly called moths- they do not give you the sense of dark autumn nights and flames flickering in lanterns, as their other vespertine brothers. They are hybrid creatures, neither bright like butterflies nor somber like the night-living moths. Anyways, the present insect I was watching seemed to be content with its life. It twirled in an intricate flight around the window I was looking through and caught my eye. The choreography the moth went through seemed harmlessly innocent, I thought. Such a small thing for a small creature to do.

It was an early September morning; mild and yet colder in comparison to the previous summer months. The same energy that fueled the drowsy students to trudge along the sidewalk sent the moth fluttering from side to side along the window. One could not help but watch it- the conscious feeling of pity buried itself inside me as I watched the moth. The possibilities of fun seemed so endless that morning and so various that a day in a moth's life seemed like a hard feat. Its zest in enjoying its meager opportunities appeared pathetic. It flew vigorously from one side to the other and back again. That was all it did, despite the width of the sky, the far-off

And yet the power of the noise and movement was still there indifferent. Somehow, it felt opposed to the little hay-colored moth. It was useless to try to do anything. One could only watch the extraordinary attempts made by those little legs against an oncoming doom which, if chosen, could submerge masses of human beings; nothing, I knew, had a chance against death. Nevertheless, the legs fluttered once more. It was successful this time and finally righted itself. Suddenly, it began moving strangely. I lifted the pencil again, even though I knew it was useless. The unmistakable tolls of death were apparent on the now still moth. The insignificant creature now knew