Why do moths gun for the nearest light fixture, be it flame or bulb or electrified zapper? I mean, really, what is it about a light that moths seem to find so desperately alluring? Is it the warmth? Is it the light itself? What? It seems that a moth’s entire existence is focused on an incessant, unrelenting need to be near the light. Even when it kills them. The similarities between a moth’s need for the light and the desires deep within the human heart are hauntingly close. Is this all there is to life? Are we but insects, to live and die in a day, the few of us fortunate enough to escape the web of the ensnaring spider instead finding ourselves hopelessly clinging to the last remnant of daylight before the long sleep? In the grandiose scheme of the stardust, are we really any more than that? We’re born, we live, we learn, we build, we teach, we grow old, we die. It is all meaningless, it is all for naught. At the end of the day, we have nothing, owe nothing, are nothing. And yet we continue to search, to yearn, to explore, to grasp. Clinging to what little time we have. Like a moth to the flame.
