I was just struck by a bit of a realization, and I wanted to write something about it. I can't write much, of course, because that would entail stating the truth that I've so carefully avoided here. But I can write a little.

The thing is, I've almost always been the moth. Drawn towards a flame that can do nothing but burn me. It's instinctive. It's my nature. The brighter and hotter the fire, the more I'm entranced. The light and the warmth of the flame - they reassure and comfort me. They give me something to strive for - to wish for - right up to that point where it's too late, and I get burned.

For almost all of my life, I've always been the moth. Always getting burned.

Twice, as far as I can remember, I've been the flame.

The first time was almost three years ago, and the second time was Friday night.

It's a pretty strange feeling, being the flame. There's a feeling of safety, certainly. And a definite sense of validation of worth.

But when I'm the flame, I exist only to burn. To consume. My heat and my warmth, they are mere side-effects to the truth.

It's a pretty powerful metaphor, I think. I really wish I could do it justice with these words that I write.

But I cannot.