Date: August 25, 2005
Word count: 350
Between two suns – but they're more that that - there's a void.
A nothing. And it screams.
Sometimes Clark runs to clear his head, and runs, and leaps, fluttering about - drawn from one empty light to another. He covers the whole of the earth without getting anywhere. His legs start to shake like wings of dust in a breeze. He can't hold himself up anymore, and he wonders if this is what it feels like to be old.
He remembers being little, and afraid. He'd cry as he was sent to school, petrified that his mother would be gone when he got home – an empty fear. She was always there. He'd run up to her, perhaps a bit too quickly, and bury his face in her stomach, clutching her hard and close until she'd gasp and whisper: Clark, gently.
Little boys were like giants to bugs, so inquisitive and hasty, unkind. A caress could crush a moth to nothing, smearing its life into a trail of moisture and dust. You're like a giant – she'd said – in a world of moths. Be gentle Clark, be gentle.
The life of a moth is short and empty, filled with darting journeys that never live up to expectations. Hiding from the light of life, craving the consumption of the artificial – the drug of mimicry, like dying in reverse.
A little boy, shaped like a man, and always so petrified of what could happen if he held on too tight. Not touching, but slowly seduced by almost caresses. Tentative as moths, two boys that are giants and so very scared of all that meant. Distance becomes nothing, but they never touch. Antennae stroke a wing. There is nothing to be afraid of.
The gift of fleeting existence, given to all but him. His own antithesis torn away by the leaking emptiness of years. He could live to be a thousand, but he'll never get used to the nothing that eats away at everything. Gravity pulls them apart, Clark is meant for better things. Secrets between feigned closeness remain.
They are moths after all.