A moth at my window tries desperately to get inside. He’s attracted to the glowing, white screen of my monitor, a sharp contrast to the blackness of 5am.
In haste, it scrambles into the stringy membranes of a spider web in the corner of the window. The spider wastes no time, comes out from its hiding place, traverses its highway of lines, and attacks the moth.
The moth flutters, it’s white underbelly shimmering, the web shaking.
And then it breaks free.
A small celebration inside the office.
But there’s another chapter.
The moth immediately flies back to the corner of the window near the web. It’s still trying to get in my office, to the lights. It’s not going to give up its quest.
The spider waits for the inevitable.
My hands still in the air from celebrating, I realize I am part of the murder and the feast.
The light, that’s my light. Without the light, the moth will fly away and live.
But I have a book to write and 5am is the only time I have to do it. I NEED the light to write the book.
So the moth will die.
This, I believe, is at the center of all tragedies: one’s commitment to their own success draws a line between two points which will likely obstruct another’s journey. And the choice has to be made, to interrupt your own line for the prosperity of another, for a life. Or to keep charging toward destiny while tragedy occurs in the darkness behind glass.
Today, I chose life and so sat in my EZ chair in the absence of light, hands folded, words not making it onto the screen where they belong, feeling a bit like a fool, perched and wondering how long it will take for a new idea to replace an old one.