Moths

I wonder about moths.

They need (moon)light to navigate their lives, even to the point of perceiving which way is up. Presumably, they recognise the cold quality of the light of the moon. Yet, in the early morning, as I commute through country lanes under a clear January sky, while the moon sits on high, moths fly into my headlights. Even LEDs aren’t moon-cold in their appearance. In the dark of winter, and in the corridor between hedges, moths show up almost gold in the electricity-produced tunnel of my headlights. The moon is high and still, gazing; my synthetic light is low and dynamic, looking. The golden moths flitting about their business, change their course, and turn to my on-coming car. If the moth is large, and I am driving in silence, its death is audible.

Why head to the strange light? Why not ignore it?

Am I assuming a non-existent intelligence? I don’t think so. I’m reading a lot about the fungal network (the ‘Wood Wide Web’), and I believe intelligence manifests in diverse guises.

While driving, I vocalise a warning, even though there’s only me to hear it. When they die, I murmur a blessing. But this doesn’t stop me driving to work, I’ve normalised the little deaths caused by my commute. The spiders that spin webs around my wingmirrors. The corpses of gnats on my numberplate after the short blast down a main road, I ‘have’ to go to work, my place of work is ten miles from my home, and I am unable to ride a bike.

Why am I worrying about this, anyway? Why am I wracking my brains for a reason, or a justification?

It’s like I’m a moth, sucked by an irrevocable gravity into the darkness of nihilism.

#nihilism #moths #winter #writerslife