Wednesday, April 14, 2010
A moth and my cat are having a tragic affair. Every night, the moth flutters up against the living room window and piteously batters against it. The cat leaps from its perch and reaches as far as it can stretch, hissing at the pane that divides them. Like prisoners they press the glass as if in hope that touch can be communicated through it. Made despondent by the obstacles to its love, the moth eventually flits away, only to return at the same time the next night. This continues on for some time. One night my cat is weary and does not notice the arrival of the moth. It strikes the cold class, first hard, then gently, but no figure mirrors its actions from within. Perhaps more heartbroken at the loss of unattainability than of love, the moth leaves. Such are the ways of love.