The Wings of the Butterfly

On The Wings Of The Butterfly

A thief creeps in the night, silently, across my dreams, to burglarize my creative attempts. Self-doubt. In the morning, the Me that was awake while I was sleeping pours out her thoughts on paper. She says, “Where is the depth of my soul? All I have is top soil.” That is when I know he came again. Then, it is like I am nothing. What I might have had yesterday, or the day before, or when I was still an innocent child or an unbroken soul, has gone like a skittish butterfly on a breezy day. It has fluttered in the wind and joined the mix of autumn leaves, never to be spotted again.

I often wonder why we are here. The sour note in my ear says that, at the very least, we are here to survive. But would we choose survival alone if it did not offer a chance at happiness? If the chance did not exist, who of us would just give up in the trenches?

I go fishing in an endless sea for the perfect catch, only to discover that all inspiration is carried on the wings of butterflies. Inspiration is not something that you make into a meal, but is the starvation of an incessant mind. And in the pause of that mind, the wind holds it’s breath and it catches you, your attention. The butterfly.