moth

I'm going to start posting art again, so here is something I drew on friday.

I can't beleive I forget to do my blog this week... after all the discussing we did I had so many ideas and somehow still forgot! I'll do my best not to let it happen again.

I really did have a lot to think about after last week. I could phrase it all explicity, but I'd prefer to just talk about something that happened this week instead.

So this week, I'm going to write about an unremarkable incident in my bathroom involving myself and a moth.

I had entered the bathroom, turned on the vent and the hot water, and while waiting to enter the shower I noticed a moth on the mirror. Silent, small, shaken by the current of the vent. I left him where he was and carried on.

It wasn't long before he, errant and grasping, made his way to the inside of the shower wall and began struggling to free his quickly saturating body from the dank grasp of condensation.

Before I realized it, I was speaking aloud. I told him not to stay, to go back to the light that had goaded him to enter the small room. I told him that he'd die if he stayed close to the stream of water. But he stayed, determined. Every time he managed to peel himself off the glass he went right back and tried to land again, leaving admirable kicking patterns in his wake.

He stayed in the same spot for a long time, hardly moving, occasionally slipping and groping to regain his posture. I moved close to him, the water still running. He was licking the glass.

Not soon after, he was bombarded by a stray droplet and fell to the bottom of the shower. I shut off the water.

He landed on his back, and his comparatively thick, white legs were grasping. But his powdered wings were moistened and plastered to the shower floor. He couldn't fly, or even flip himself over.

I offered him a finger, which he graciously accepted. He stood on my finger, morose, worldly, calm. I placed him on the windowsill to dry. He scrambled, finding another difficulty in the slick paint, but he found his way.

I finished my shower. On my way out, I noticed the moth on the windowsill, staring at me.

That's the end of my story. I normally don't like writing about what happens to me, but there was something about this moth. I thought of the moth a lot over the past week and although I can't put my finger on it, something about him was haunting. I love moths. I don't like to hurt them, because they enter my room only for my light and my shelter and ask not for anything of me. My only regret is that once entering, the lights intoxicate them and become their demise.