I held a big, furry moth in my palm today as it quivered its way out of life. I made a point of appreciating just how beautiful it was in its perfect imperfection as I felt something within it pulse ever so faintly against the flesh of my hand.
It mattered to me that this little creature had a warm place for its last few seconds alive rather than being forsaken on the pavement.
It mattered that someone, somewhere appreciated the beauty of it being alive and vital while it lasted.
I cried, a little, at how lonely and impervious to my grief the world sometimes feels.
Of course, this isn’t really about the moth because it is and was always oblivious. The above tells you much more about the architect of the words than anything else, as the things we say and do and write always do.
One life long conversation about ourselves.