A butterfly descends on my finger, and I reach out with my other hand to caress it, ever so gently, only to have it fluttering away the moment I touch it.
It flitters away to the neighboring meadow, and skims along the undulating carpet of wild flowers and dandelions, dyed a beautiful golden by the warmth and essence of the weary setting sun. It lingers for awhile longer, as if to check if I were following, before finally disappearing into the glare of the horizon.
I am left standing, hand outreached, squinting into the distant landscape. Bemused? with a tinge of despondence.
The butterfly has disappeared, just as all the butterflies before it have. But as with every passing butterfly that has visited, specks of shimmery dusts were left behind, rubbed off from that one stroke. They call it butterfly powder. Alluring, enchanting, intriguing.
Each butterfly is unique, each with its own magic. I lift up my finger to inspect the remnant dust, oh how they glisten under the evening sun. I bring my finger to my nose, and I breathe them in.
I turn, and stroll back towards the solitude of my shelter, a wry smile breaks forth from the corner of my lips.
Butterfly dust nourishes, it catalyzes growth, it engenders change. What was strength to the butterfly is now strength for me.
The dust is at work, I've acquired something new yet again. I am different.
Butterflies change me, and with each encounter, I am a step closer to becoming the Butterfly Man.
Wurtt???
Errrrrrr. Never mind. hahahah.
It's my 4am cryptic partial-sanity.
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