A frenzy of insects buzzed around the exposed bulb. Sitting on my porch, drowsy by liquor, I watched the mass of mindless bugs circle and circle as the hours moved on toward a darker and darker night.
I didn’t want to go inside. The bottle of—whatever it was—I lifted it to my lips and felt the last drops dripping onto my tongue. I set it aside clumsily, and it rolled away, down the steps, escaping my bleary eyes. No more bottles, no more booze, and I was still sober enough to know what was behind that door. I watched the bugs swirling in the night.
Circles within circles, patterns out of chaos, there seemed some grand order, some symphony, in their mindless turning. Yet, I could not make sense of it, of the bugs, or what I had done, what awaited behind the door.
My light had gone out, and I was free of the meaningless repetitions I had hated; I was lost forever to the night; yet I envy those mad, circling insects who buzz around Edison’s conquest of darkness.
Let the night swarms carry on with the bulb. By the morning, they will leave, but I, I will never open that door, nor, should morning come, will I come again into the light.
Found the image for this post here.
Tale Told 