Moths Are People Too
You awake thinking,
“Today will be the day that I won’t end up repeating a pattern of self-destructive behaviour”.
And you successfully go about your business all day long without deliberately whacking yourself against any bright glass objects.
Another humdrum day being a common moth isn’t so bad.
It’s not as great as being a lion and not as bad as being a bluebottle but it’s okay…
… until your sibling turns up.
You know, the beautiful one that everyone admires and thinks is so wonderful. Your sibling’s not actually doing anything that you’re not doing but suddenly you seem dull and unimpressive beside their spectacular and charming beauty that draws admiring glances from everyone who sees them.
And now you’re not even just ordinary any more, you’re positively ugly in comparison. People physically recoil from you, even though they try to entice your glorious sibling to land in their hands. They don’t seem to realise that there is virtually no difference between you apart from some colouring. In essence, this is racism on a primal sense-level.
People begin to accuse you of vile and evil (though not necessarily anagrammatical) acts. You try to tell them that you don’t actually eat their clothes but they won’t believe you. They want to believe bad things about you to justify their bigoted aversion to your looks.
And so you don’t go straight home like you know you should. You stop off for a drink to numb the pain*. And then another few drinks to make you feel better. And another few to avoid letting go of feeling better. And then another few ‘cos of some other reason that seemed like a good one at the time.
And then you’re hammered and you have to try and make it home.
And just like hammered people, hammered moths have difficulty telling the difference between an open door and a pane of glass.
And just like hammered people, your thinking can be a bit askew when you’re drunk. And you just want to get home to your cosy warm bed. And you see something that looks cosy and warm and you think that must be the place. And you rush towards it but you bang your head on something and can’t get in, but you can’t figure out what’s happened so you try again.
And, yes, it hurts – it even burns a bit – but the alcohol numbs the pain somewhat and, besides, you’re so close now to being in that wonderful-looking warm and bright and cosy place that it seems like madness to you to stop trying … even though it seems like madness to humans that you are continually banging yourself against a lightbulb.
And, just like people, you’ll wake up the next day with a sore head and the desperate hope that “Today will be the day that I won’t end up repeating a pattern of self-destructive behaviour”.
‘Cos a moth is just a plain-looking butterfly with a drink-problem.
* Technically the moth sups on fermented fruit, rather than knocking back bottles of beer and whiskey-chasers or alcopops, but you get the idea.
Montages by Ripley Trout from images by Ripley Trout except: Moth by dancesincreek from morguefile.com, Nighthawks by Edward Hopper (Art Institute of Chicago), Office by koushik from morguefile.com, Screenshot by mantasmagorical from morguefile.com, Beer by Alvimann from morguefile.com, Butterfly by Uwe H. Friese via Wikimedia file: Schmetterling_1a_neucc.jpg