03/01/25
The Worms, the Salmon, and the Moths
Accompanying Soundtrack: In the Aeroplane Over the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel
There’s something about certain animal lives that disturbs me. Not in horror, but in recognition. Perhaps it unsettles me because it feels eerily familiar, like a reflection of something deeply human.
I once wrote about the argali, the wild sheep whose horns grow inward, curling until they pierce their own flesh, killing them slowly. A physical memento mori, a body destroying itself by design. This time, it’s the worms, the salmon, and the moths.
Some mistake the wet pavement for safety, unaware that the water will vanish, leaving them stranded. They are stepped on, crushed, their bodies dismantled, dried, and eventually become part of the pavement itself, beyond recognition. Their own survival instinct is a gamble—what saves them in one moment seals their fate in the next.
Every time I see them scattered across the pavement during the rain, I feel an odd sense of remorse, almost wishing I could warn them of what’s to come.
I once saw a video of the end of the stream, where the water was calm, still, peaceful, and filled with the lifeless bodies of salmon floating. It made me wonder: Are they at peace? Can they finally rest? But they never get to enjoy the very thing they fought so hard for. The moment they catch a glimpse of it, instead of basking in it, instead of finally being able to be, they are forced to take their last breath.
They chase something they will never reach, something that was never meant for them. And yet, they keep going, unable to resist the pull. I wonder if, in their final moments, they realize the light was never what they thought it was. Or if they die believing they were almost there.
The resemblance to our own human lives is clear. It’s tragic, this idea that we, too, might be bound by instincts we don’t fully understand. That maybe we’re following an unseen script, moving through cycles we never thought to question, drawn toward something just beyond our sight.
The way we mistake survival for progress, effort for meaning, motion for direction. Until we realize it, just a little too late.
There’s something about certain animal lives that disturbs me. Not in horror, but in recognition. Perhaps it unsettles me because it feels eerily familiar, like a reflection of something deeply human.
I once wrote about the argali, the wild sheep whose horns grow inward, curling until they pierce their own flesh, killing them slowly. A physical memento mori, a body destroying itself by design. This time, it’s the worms, the salmon, and the moths.
The Worms
Worms surface when it rains, writhing on the sidewalks, only to dry up and die by morning. They breathe through their skin, and when the soil floods, they are, quite literally, drowning. So they rise, desperate for air, for survival. But they don’t know when to go back.Some mistake the wet pavement for safety, unaware that the water will vanish, leaving them stranded. They are stepped on, crushed, their bodies dismantled, dried, and eventually become part of the pavement itself, beyond recognition. Their own survival instinct is a gamble—what saves them in one moment seals their fate in the next.
Every time I see them scattered across the pavement during the rain, I feel an odd sense of remorse, almost wishing I could warn them of what’s to come.
The Salmon
Salmon swim upstream against the current, pushing forward with everything they have, their bodies breaking, their energy draining, just to return to the place where they were born. That’s just what they do. And when they arrive, when they finally complete their journey, they die. As if the struggle was the purpose, the arrival merely an ending.I once saw a video of the end of the stream, where the water was calm, still, peaceful, and filled with the lifeless bodies of salmon floating. It made me wonder: Are they at peace? Can they finally rest? But they never get to enjoy the very thing they fought so hard for. The moment they catch a glimpse of it, instead of basking in it, instead of finally being able to be, they are forced to take their last breath.
The Moths
Phototaxis, an instinct of the moths that once guided them by the light of the moon, but in a world of artificial glow, it has become their undoing. They spiral toward porch lights, street lamps, open flames: mistaking them for guidance, only to be met with heat, exhaustion, and death.They chase something they will never reach, something that was never meant for them. And yet, they keep going, unable to resist the pull. I wonder if, in their final moments, they realize the light was never what they thought it was. Or if they die believing they were almost there.
The resemblance to our own human lives is clear. It’s tragic, this idea that we, too, might be bound by instincts we don’t fully understand. That maybe we’re following an unseen script, moving through cycles we never thought to question, drawn toward something just beyond our sight.
The way we mistake survival for progress, effort for meaning, motion for direction. Until we realize it, just a little too late.