I love fireflies. I love watching them. Sometimes at night, I go out under the sky and watch these little glowing insects for hours. And I absolutely enjoy it.
Right now, I’m in my bed with the lights off, and there are a bunch of these tiny creatures glowing within my field of vision. I should love this, right? But no, I’m not loving it. I’m low-key scared.
Just a while ago, a firefly came close to my body, twinkling like a tiny star. I think I might have hurt it, and that made me feel bad. I don’t want these fireflies around me right now. In theory, I could just get up, catch them all in my hands, maybe kill them or throw them away. But I love these little creatures. I care for them. I just don’t want them here at the moment. I can’t hurt them.
Maybe this is how people around me feel about me sometimes. I don’t mean to compare myself to these beautiful fireflies — because I neither bring the glow nor am I a pretty sight — but there are people who care for me, people who wouldn’t want to see me hurt.
Yet how often am I the one flickering at their ceiling when they’re just trying to sleep? How often have they wanted to chase me away so badly, but couldn’t — because they wouldn’t want to hurt me? How often have I been to them what these fireflies are to me tonight?
Am I the firefly?, I can only ponder the question, with wet eyes, until I overthink myself to sleep.