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when i was younger, i had a deathly fear of bugs, and unfortunately sharp eyes. i would see a bug sitting on the wall, and i would stop absolutely everyone and everything to point it out, and then, you know, squish it. but as i got older, i realized that these bugs, little moths, little white house spiders; they're just lonely insignificant creatures, trapped on the wrong side of the screen door. and they beat their little heads against the window panes trying to escape, but just can't comprehend how small and fleeting they are, how weak. i wonder, if maybe, they do know, and they don't care. life for these little bugs is short, sand in an hourglass running, running, running; they're powerless, chewing holes through old coats in the backs of closets to pass the time. create, learn, retain, recreate, die—over, and over again. if everyone lived the way they do, everything would move so slowly. time wouldn't go so fast. maybe, that's why they do it.

i pass a moth on the wall in my hallway today. i let it sit.

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