fireflies.

There is something so right about fireflies. The earthworms would wait for their time to hatch and fly out bringing tons of little lights. They would bring history with them like troubadours and fill your house with wings, encouraging it to fly. They would transform into things you love, beautiful things you love, and with lights on their tails they would tell you these things you love are even more meaningful.

There is also something so sad about fireflies. The earthworms believe that the world will end tomorrow. They cultivate such a big faith of it that their world only responds without a single sigh of doubt. With lights on their tails they would tell you these things you love are the most beautiful, the most meaningful, and they are not lying: if you pile all the days of your life into one and put it under fire, what could it be other than beautiful? What could it be other than meaningful?

There is simply something about fireflies. Their world is a glad extension of their belief that if it does end tomorrow, those lights need to be shared as reminders of how history culminates. They survive on this faith and so would fill your house with wings trying to encourage your house to fly, overnight. I look at them with longing, how I wish, how I wish. But I can only survive on Ravel, because I believe we both believe that the history of flying lights are as benign as the sebaceous glands in my skin.

Lies are nothing more than the differences between the circumferences of our bubbles when they collide. When the sun rises, these light-bringers of the night past remain beautiful in peace. When the wind blows, their wings fly out and leave your house, bringing their hope of flying with them. There. Time to walk away now; I have more than twenty thousand days to catch.