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The butterfly

Flitting about, directionless but constantly in motion. The briefest of pauses, touchdown then takeoff. Another direction, different from the last, is explored and ignored in the almost the same instant. Nothing permanent, nothing sticks, everything else is more interesting, nothing is interesting.

He closes his eyes. Dark folds in around him and his breathing slows. Seconds merge with days and soon he is out the other side once more. Emerging from the tunnel he blinks and casts around for the next thing to hold him, the next moment that will steer him to the shore to crash on the rocks. The sun splits through the sky and beyond he sees the stars and planets of another place, the twinkling of headlights on a frosty road.

The pattern of ice and snow is worn, recently trod and familiar. He chooses the other path because that is what he does, looks the other way and decides once more. He does not dare to be different, but he strives for it, constant in his desire to remain in motion. Flittering and directionless.

And then, suddenly, he stops.

And is still.

Is calm.

The sun rises on the new day and all around him everything has changed.

# ~ Writing 3 Comments


Comments (3)

KDecember 8th, 2008 at 6:04 pm

Wow. That is all. Wow

VioletSkyDecember 8th, 2008 at 10:28 pm

And here I thought butterflies just looked pretty.
They’re poetic and deep thinkers, too.

mumDecember 8th, 2008 at 11:41 pm

Another one for my scrapbook,

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