The moth bumped its head against the windowpane for the seventy-third time. It had been trying to get out all morning and in the dying heat of the late afternoon, its white wings trembled with ache. Soft bits of moth dust lay spent like dandruff on the windowsill. Outside freedom reached its welcome arms out, open and wide. With every attempt, rents turned into alleyways and alleyways turned into gaping voids in its wings and spirit. Life tasted weary in its tasteless mouth. Yesterday felt like a hundred years ago. It was hard to believe and harder to remember that it had been reckless with the joy of being alive, so-called-hundred-years-ago. The dank iron taste of imprisonment numbed its motors and spread the sweet poison of ennui slowly, evenly.
Every time it beat its gossamer fists against the unrelenting cold of the glass, life waned futile. Every time it threw itself against this wall that separated tomorrow from today, desperation got the better of wit. Every time it rebelled uselessly, compromise gained strength from a faraway option and despite its dubious credentials, began to look like a valid route of escape. And every time it fell back in defeat, it forgot that outside the radius of its immediate misery, life was passing it by.
On the other side life beckoned. On the other side beauty reigned. Opportunities lay glittering in jewel boxes, all it needed to do is get to the other side of the window. Just get to the other side. Maybe it will. Maybe it won't.
I certainly hope I will.