The Butterfly

This is madness! the bitter cruelty of truth and the terror of nature! There are no reasons to exist here but the trivial tasks of living, for there are streaming rivers of bloody life and half cast shadows of the watchful waiting gather beyond the yawning sky, and so filled with light, as these shadows are banished far from the call of darkness.


And this is death! The ocean and sky, the solid and the spirit, for the fires of heaven graze the sky amidst tongues of flames that leap towards the earth, and terrible are the cracks and thundering giant clouds, that storm the world with a merciless sweep. But it is death that weeps when the world collapses beyond his reach.


Is this life a struggle against death, when death is becoming and stoops down to claim us all? This purpose we call our freedom, what of it? The butterfly is simply the answer to existence.


A floundering caterpillar should barely recognise its own existence before the time of evolution proceeds and it is already concealed within the glass cocoon and the butterfly breaks away as a new species by design. How mysterious is the cause of this butterfly to break its bonds with mother earth, and to fall upon the drifting wave of time that carries the careless butterfly to the end. But how may days did it take to gather its strength, regardless of seconds and hours ticking by, and to feed its hunger that grew steadily and then to bear the task of the evolution in its making?


Everything is apparent and obviously justified as one learns, for the world is the map of all the living and the non living, but the reasons are a humane question or a study that does not really need pondering over, but this existence of the butterfly will seem completely curious to the wide open mind that will learn anything and everything.


But what else revolves around this cycle of thriving and perishing? Does not reason belong somewhere between this unreasonable and fatal cycle? Does not the butterfly ascend even beyond the boundaries of freedom, given its former state that mused at this impossible future?


A false world does give life but never meaningful enough that the world seems robbed of all happiness and its spontaneous moments that we cherish so delightedly. For here comes the storm, changing moments into seasons of that which nature shall rule by her terrible hand, as she showers the sky and lands with torn butterfly wings that float gently across those ravaged winds.


Is this purpose of the butterfly justified? The air and the earth, do they serve as mere guides and mothers who nurse their children with such tender care and then cast them head first into the maw of death? the love of the sun and the mild dew upon the butterfly’s back, that sprinkles like the misty rain of morn, where the flowers will bend to touch the butterfly, for shining in the light of life and the earth rejoices of the artist who made nature more beautiful than his child. But as creations left without purpose, and how terrible and beautiful is the world that these shards of reason lay scattered everywhere and each life must choose the subtle truth, so unique and rare that the truth is never complete, for nature buries this life beneath her sands and the wind to carry the last living breath. For we are not given reasons to live and that is the complete freedom that is sparked in even a new born child.


Beauty is that which one fills paradise aplenty, and with every other desired attraction towards the past or the present, and this brave witness of paradise, looking from the insanity to the heights of madness, and he trembles and weeps at the sight of this rising hell. Enchanted are the tricks of nature and the devil that promise the greatness and the fall, both so simple that none could exist without the other.


Madness is desired above all else, where laughter rings like the echoing screams of a thousand souls, raped by the haunting allures of this paradise.


It is the corruption of nature that fuels this hungry beast of ambition that lumbers on through the walls of knowledge, where the sky falls when ignorance is uttered, for the mind is destroyed as the battering continues.


The butterfly is dead and alive, a ghost of life as sombre as the mayfly and the moth. The cold and the heat, fire and water, how well does the air rend life apart with such daring acts of flaming storms and drowning deluges, for it is nature that disregards the cold reasons of humankind and its progress, and that in vain, for the horror falls like a thick curtain before the gates of paradise.


Freedom is the right of a butterfly, if not for those who have already chosen, this illusion of life before death, is the reason that nature is thus defined.


There flies the butterfly upon crystal waves, just a flutter of wings that glide noiselessly by, for who could come by a purpose so pure and simple, to reveal itself to the world and perish before it. Before the sun rises, why must time account for all that was restless and awake within the black night? And still freedom flees as if death and time were chasing it forever, over the ages hunted among other chosen desires and when shall the grey locks upon freedom fade, and where shall we rest, but ever restless in the moment that waits for the future.


This fragile ghost of beauty and of nature, shall end and begin in the life of dawn to dusk and where the butterfly fades when death so mighty does finally descend.