I Wish I Could Be Alone but Not Lonely

My cat, Greg, caught and ate a moth yesterday. He's heroic. He knows how much their erratic flying causes me panic, so he marches downstairs from his swanky spare room, bats them around and then, inevitably, eats them.

I'm usually grateful. I was yesterday, too, don't think I wasn't, but I felt pity for the moth. There was a point when the dusty creature was still alive, barely, and Greg dropped it on the floor to investigate it before chomping it apart. Broke my heart.

When Greg relinquished it, it hobbled towards his foot. Greg moved his paw away. Then, the tattered moth did it again - ran towards his attacker. I had to put my head down; the poignancy of the moment was worth regarding.

I'm still seized by the entirety of that minute. It was a micro-world, life changing bit of the universe. I'm stuck there, swirling in pain for the living.

I am living, but slowly dying.