The Ungrateful Uncertain Moth

The glimmer attracts so many, but is so easily forgotten in its absence. — It’s my willful ignorance.

I thought of the bulb, once, when the light had left. I wondered where it went. I wondered if it would come back. — Only once.

It always came back. Not that I waited for it. It only really existed when its glow warmed me.

And then it didn’t. Its bright flash caught my attention and then it was consumed by darkness. As was I, but this was different. It met a deeper, emptier darkness. One that could only come from light slipping away.

Now, I think of the bulb. Could I have seen the flicker if I had looked a bit harder? Would I have known it was so close to bursting if I was a bit closer, if I remembered it when it wasn't benefiting me?

It’s that uncertainty I’ll have to live with. — My uncomfortable luxury.

To all the bulbs with dwindling filaments, the ones who are too far for me to fly to, the ones whom I have under-appreciated for far too long,

The world is much darker without your light.

Burn bright. Burn long.