there was a moth at my front door.
i asked him why he was here.
he told me he was very old, and wished to watch the gods of the earth live and learn their secrets, which he promised to take to the grave. he wanted to find out because his mother didn’t understand.
over the course of three days, he witnessed conversation. arguments. the work needed to repair after one. he saw many, many meals being made. he saw the small details in how people communicate love ineffectively, how there are unbridgeable spaces between all of us. how we rely on self constructed narratives to get by. he watches us perform ourselves, to ourselves, to others; sees the plainness in our faces as we go to bed at night, masks washed off. he discovered our impulses to create something beyond ourselves in our unfinished songs, paintings, poems, entrepreneurial ideas, and most of all, in our half written stories. he watches a small child cry after breaking a dinner plate. he saw our limitations. on the fourth day, he experienced silence.
he passed, unsatisfied with his discovery of there being nothing more than the mundane. in a handful of days, he lost his god. the secret is acceptance
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