A moth trapped itself in the house before dawn. It hovered by the window seeking the light outside. Why, since moths fly at night, right?
Instinctively, I tried to catch it to free it outside. Instinctively, the moth tried to free itself to continue flying toward the window.
I wonder how often I pull the same stunt. Trying to fly on my own. Toward an outside I can never reach.
Smudges-on-the-glass later, I trapped the moth in my hands. It stilled in the darkness.
So did the moth.
About then, I began to think of what I’m now writing. Like, what does it take to stop me from aiming for a glass window? What does it take for me to let someone else capture me if they intend to free me outside? (Three “me” in that sentence but only one “someone else.”)
It aggravated me that the moth wouldn’t let me help it. I wonder how aggravated I make someone else because I’m not helpable.
