I have always found something beautiful about moths. They are not colorful like butterflies, no, but that, I think, is exactly what makes them beautiful. Perhaps it’s how you never see them but against the light, or how they love the light so much they determinedly attach themselves onto the screen until you open it. Butterflies are beautiful because they are loved by the light, moths because they love the light. 

A moth who loved the flame.  That is me with him. How close should I go? How close can I go? It’s been a few months, but he still leaves traces around. That ribbon he put into my hair, those little notes he wrote me.  Pictures–we were so, so happy, it seems, but I know not what the flame thinks of the moth. Chats from eons ago, and the memories.

It is never the flame’s fault, not for shining too brightly. It is only moth’s fault, or so it seems. For in the end, the moth feels the burn, but the flame continues.

When he told me not to worry and that everything would be all right. And if I ever was worried again, I should just go talk to him. And now he’s not sure. What went wrong? What happened?


I wrote this about three months ago, inspired by Chopin’s Etude Op. 25, No. 2. It is often called the “Bees Etude,” but I don’t think that does the melancholy feeling justice. I was going to finish this up and post an audio file, except WordPress apparently doesn’t like .wav files, so this just kind of sat there in my drafts. I guess if I figure out how to post my version I will, but in the mean time this is a good version.


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