The Moth

I am writing from the toilet.

There is a moth that has now been in my bathroom for at least two days. It may have been here longer but I cannot say for sure. Since I first acknowledged its presence, it has remained in the same place: In a corner of the shower, just below the ceiling. It's not particularly light there nor is there any type of food. Yet there it stays, presumably sedentary in the hours that I am not blogging from my toilet vantage.

But as I sit here, pants pulled to not the ankles but just below the knee- why go all the way to the ankle, it's too low, it's unnecessary- I feel a wave of mortality. Here is this creature that for no seeable reason chooses to live in a corner of my ho hum bathroom, content with never flinching or even facing a new direction.

In this bug, I can see part of me. I can see parts of everyone. I see so many lives that are spent in a manner far too similar to this bug. Unchanging. Uninspired. It makes me want to cry.

Why do we sit in the corner, facing what we know, or what we've chosen to accept, waiting for the day that we die? I am no bug scientist, but I'm pretty sure the average life span of a moth is what- a week? Two weeks tops? The moth in question has squandered a significant chunk of its waking days blending into a vanilla tile. And I hate the moth for that.

The time is now, moth! The moment is upon you. I know you're just a bug and likely won't read this, but you don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. And while you can't know this in your tiny gross brain, there might not be a tomorrow. I might kill you with a towel. But what I really want to say to you is this: leave the corner. Take a chance. Fly towards the light. You'll soon be dead because of me or because of your comically-short natural life cycle. You likely don't care about life experiences because you don't have a Facebook profile to share them on, but as someone who does I implore you to venture. A life staring at the wall is hardly a life at all.