Like a Moth to a Flame

“The world is not what it used to be.”

‘The world is never how it used to be.’ I want to say but I remain silent, sitting, watching.  My brothers and sisters are flying.  In the air they dance to and fro, basking lazily in the moon’s glow.

“I do not know the moon.  I’m not sure if I’ve ever known the moon.” One of the older moths whispers, “There are so many moons, so many suns and stars…I am sure the world was simpler once.”

And indeed there was a time when world was less complicated, if the stories that have been passed down from one generation of moths to the next are to be believed.  I’ve heard whispers of it in the night: of a time before the blinding lights and before the era of death.

The light used to be our dearest love.  It has turned on us.  It kills now when before it only nurtured.  And yet we still come back for more because we don’t know any other way of living.  We have always danced with the moon and we will always dance with the moon even if it kills us.  It is our way.
“To kiss the moon…they say it is sweet.”

“And deadly.” I whisper back, “They also say that long before the killing light came, it was impossible to kiss the moon; it was too far away.”

“There was the one.” My sister whispers, “They say he kissed the moon.”

“It’s a story.” I tell her, “Just a story and nothing more.”

“But the time before the lights is a story too.  What if this was always how it was?”

“But it wasn’t always this way.” I reply uncertainly.

“But what if it was?  I want to kiss the moon.”

“You have never known the moon.” Another cries, “None of us will ever know the moon.”

“But I wish to know the moon.” My sister whispered, dancing circles in the air, “I wish to kiss the moon.”

I was silent then.  There was a time, they say, when the most dangerous things were other animals.  Now we are a danger to ourselves.  

My sister’s dance becomes more frantic as she slopes towards the (not) moon.  She makes quick and sloppy circles in the sky sloping ever closer to the light with each swoop.  All the while no one pays her any mind.  Such dances have become commonplace in our world.  We know even before she is through with her dance how it all will end.  All the while I am silent, sitting, watching.  

My sister gets her wish and kisses the moon and then she is falling, falling, falling.  Her dance beautiful to the end, as we all knew it would be, and there is a certain grace to her fall.  

We do not simply die; we dance.

In death she is beautiful, but I wonder if it was worth it.  I wonder if anyone has ever survived the dance we all truly wish to dance.  I wonder if anyone has lived to tell what it is like to kiss the moon.   

My wings flap restlessly on my back.  Maybe I will be the one.  Maybe I can tell my brothers and sisters what it is like to kiss the moon so they don’t have to.  
I know this dance will my last even though I wish I could live to tell the tale.  But I am dancing now and there is no turning back.  From the moment I begin I am ensnared.  I must see the dance through to the end.

I wonder briefly if I will have the same grace my sister did in death.  I hope I do.
As I slope ever closer the light blinds me and I find myself disoriented.  I can only see light, and in my blindness I continue my dance, swooping around a moon I can no longer see.  


And suddenly: a shock, a spark, a zing, a flash, a burst of light and blindness.  
I only have time to realize that I have kissed the moon and I do not know whether it was worth it or not, and to wonder what I look like falling and then...

Nothing.