It was a joyous time, another dusty, inked memory, perhaps an ideal situation. I was rather unsure of what I wanted to remember of that day (as I always am), but something about those short breaths, those precious moments, had left me unwillingly weak at the knees. I sighed, ruffled my hair anxiously, crawled into my curtained corner of the empty box with the moths, waited for butterflies, for nothing, for dead.
( it was at this moment that i—as a man torn in two by a simple idea, a simple inflection of Me trapped within steel bars in the deepest recesses of my conscience that cannot, should not, exist—became liquid, seeping through the microscopic holes in the cardboard;
but i was alone
and nobody heard me … )
I wanted to leave this place of solitude, lingering hopes, incompetence. I reached out a hand into the wilderness, where the sun shone, where the landscape was scattered flowers, where there were mountainsides painted in delicate pastel colors, where the dancing breeze and the fresh smell of ripe fruits freely glided through the sunshine. I reached as far as the waterfall, saw myself in the rushing waters; I cried. The dream fell apart, each picturesque grain of sand dropping to the wayside. I could not do anything but continue my journey on the quiet road, my hand perpetually wrapped around my chest, seeking warmth and comfort in my own heartbeat.
I looked up, where the moths were perched upside-down on the ceiling, swinging back and forth in still air. I slowly picked each one off, arranged their patchy wings before my knees. I tried desperately to burn them, but there was not a single fire within me.