Fleeting

'Long after the firefly had disappeared, the trail of its light remained inside me, its pale, faint glow hovering on and on in the thick darkness behind my eyelids like a lost soul. 

More than once I tried stretching my hand out in the dark. My fingers touched nothing. The faint glow remained, just beyond my grasp.'

– Haruki Murakami 
  (Norwegian Wood)

Those aren't lines that blew my mind at all. Just regular everypage lines. What's important is the gift…a firefly in a jar is a beautiful thing to give. A boy I knew once told me about how he gave his friend a backpack full of butterflies that he'd spent all day catching. That is a beautiful gift too..(are you reading this Kalhan?)
If someone gave me a firefly in a jar I would love it but I would do what Toru Watanabe did and let it fly away. Because it would make me sad to see it die. I truly believe that all lovely small and fluttering things serve only to remind us of how frail and fleeting innocence is. I don't mean to sound like those sickly Romantics but there are things that I do truly believe. 
Goldfish are like that as well. You keep them in a bowl and feed them everyday and talk to them sometimes, but before you know it, they belly-up and die on you. Which is why you never give a kid a goldfish bowl. My nephew has one, and doesn't mind when they die, because he knows he can always get a 'new new fish'. He also believes that fish don't Die, but they get fever and then you have to flush them down the loo. Like a prescription. Fyi, the fever happens because 'fish go round and round and round and round, then fishie thak gaya, fever aaya'. Which is all very well, except today he got two new fish and for the first time, he named them. Nano and Droop. (No idea where he got Droop from..) And I think when you give things names, you get attached to them. I think he might feel bad when Nano and Droop die.. 
Pray that doesn't happen.
And now to go back to the book. Goodnight again.

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Author: Kirtana K

I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when I'm sick or cold or sad or celebrating. They'll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. I'll be an Unidentified Living Object and they'll put my insides on display. It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.

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