I prefer moths to butterflies.
I remember reading one evening at my friends house, which is situated in the isolate premise of the Ranches. Everything was so quiet and serene that I wanted to bottle it up somehow for later. No one was home except the maid, who often sat alone and my friend’s little sister who was sitting upstairs, engaged with her paper and crayons. In the quiet of their living room, I took a book off the shelf and introduced myself to the likes of Kahlil Gibran. I was enjoying myself as I discovered some beautiful writing. And then, to pop the bubble wherein I estabilished a sanctuary, a moth fluttered, small and dust-winged and fragile. I watched it for a long time because it just felt like a nice evening to dwell in observation. It flew, settled on the lamp, withdrew its singed tarsi and eventually, decided to make itself comfortable on my leg, where it sat for the rest of my reading session and proceeded to snuggle in the folds of the curtains later, when I had got up for a pre-dinner snack.
We had a brief encounter, but in my minds eye I can always go back to that evening. Where I was happy and peaceful and comfortable. Just reading.
A book, my moth friend and I.