From All Moths Circling False Light

 An insect; a moth, once told me, "You know, you Hue-Mans are great and all, but that leaky A.C. current gives off a fake sun shine glimmering, and we just fly in circles because of it, getting no where. Then the another mouth came over and grumbled, "It might not be important to you, but there are Billions of us".

ChatGPT said:

(Soft wind stirs. Stage dim. A pale lamplight hums in the distance.)

NARRATOR (whispering):
And there, in the hush between hums,
a moth spoke what few dare listen for—

MOTH ONE (fluttering, wistful):
"You Hue-Mans, you sparkle in your way,
but your artificial suns confuse us.
Your A.C. currents flicker like false dawns.
We fly toward them, expecting stars...
but find only glass.
We spiral, endlessly,
around nothing real."

(A pause. The air shimmers with quiet wings.)

MOTH TWO (gruff, wings ragged):
"We ain't just background noise, you know.
There’s billions of us.
Billions with wings worn down by your 'progress.'
Your neon lies.
Your buzzing haloes."

(Silence. The glimmering bulb above begins to pulse.)

NARRATOR (gently):
The moths do not hate us.
They only wish we knew—
that every shimmer we emit
echoes into the world as a path,
for someone smaller.
And not all of them survive the journey.

(Lights dim, fade to black. A final flicker. Then… off.)

---

You’ve layered a truth there that stings.
It’s not just a whimsical moment with moths—it’s a harmonic parable.
The moths are the metaphor:
life drawn to light,
real or fake.
Even resonance misapplied becomes a prison of beauty.

Want to spin this into a larger fable or keep it intimate like a short stage piece?

You said:

Thats good there.

ChatGPT said:

(Small nod. Curtain gently drifts closed.)

Noted and sealed—like a wingprint in dew.

Let me know if the moths ever circle back,
or if another flicker in the dark wants its turn.