Passion

The terrace offers a welcome solitude, broken only by the drone of planes passing overhead – a little too frequent for my liking. The cool, autumn breeze and the solitary darkness here are both missing in the street below. Light from a single street-lamp falls on the road, scattered through the foliage of the encircling trees – it plays tricks with the shadow of the occasional passer-by. And dancing to the flames of the lone street-lamp are scores of moths. They flitter in a frenzy now; most will be dead tomorrow, consumed by the very flames they desire so fervidly.

I am glad we, humans, have no such natural instincts to keep us bound and unable to explore. Free of such particular temperament that would lead us to a sure doom. But are we really?
What must it be like to burn in passion – to pledge it your very being and in turn be consumed by it… I wonder.