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“How do you think of those incredible stories?” people would ask. As though any writer ever actually knew the answer to such a question!
“Ah, but that is the real tragedy of existence, is it not? We all of us think we have some sort of hold on our own hearts. We all of us think we have some sort of control over how and when and whom we love. But ultimately, we’re prey to forces beyond our control. Each and every one of us.”
The moths spin in a whirlwind of wings and rainbow hues, shooting up
and away into the starry sky. She watches them go. And I watch her. Drink in the sight of her. Memorize each subtle fluctuation of her face and expression, the luminous glow of the stars shining in her eyes. I can never be whole again. Not until I make her mine.
