The burning light of my night stand lamp welcomed a moth into my bedroom. Bouncing against the searing hot bulb, I can hear it's wings flip-flapping with pain. It knows what it wants. That light. That incandescent, perfect glowing that brightens everything around it, yet sears to the touch. It's something to love and adore, says the moth, something so beautiful must be touched, held, kissed. But it burns with a cold hatred. The moth knows the pain to come, insisting on fluttering around the perfectly shaped glass, touching again and again, each time burned. I wonder if the moth ever asks herself if it's worth it.
I'm laying in bed, turning into an insomniac. I only have a couple of chapters left of Platoon by Dale A. Dye, and when I've finished them, I think I'll lay here and contemplate the theory of reencarnation. I have one hour til I have to be up and dressed anyway.
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