In a place untouched by humanity lived a butterfly so undisturbed and nonchalant. With large, scaly wings, yellow as a buttercup, vibrant polka dots here and there, it was effortlessly distinguished from the others of its kind. As sweet as the nectar she seeks, she fluttered her wings to bring a beauty so delicate into the soft air. Its compound eyes, fierce antennae, and gentleness left no doubt that it was the flower of the azure skies.

    So secure it was, however, hard days were to come that only a few could endure. The strapping winds followed by the petrifying cold assured that winter was approaching, a season detested by many. The piteous butterfly had no way of protecting herself, so she flew far away to the east, leaving behind a feeling of utmost disdain that rested eternally in the hearts of her fellow friends. The only thing the butterfly cared about was her fragile winds, so she thought of the others with contempt.

In a fortnight winter blew most maliciously on the land of the butterflies. The only butterfly who flew miles across felt it in her antennae, at that very moment shivering incessantly, although she did not acknowledge why.

    On and on she went, across steep valleys, dense forests, lofty mountains, and dry deserts. She sometimes stopped suddenly and focused on the sunset. She absorbed every feature, every color until she flew again with frequent stops to drink nectar. Although the taste was not the same with the nectar her friends had given her with much satisfaction and civility.

    The butterfly came to a halt, her wings lethargic and unable to flutter from the extreme uneasiness of the weather. So there she fell on a soft leaf of a massive tree and slept. She thought, “It was like this, I now see, to be so tired to feel as though my wings could shatter into uncountable pieces irreversibly; oh, nothing existential dare to part my ethereal wings from my soul, or I shall die despairingly!” Mislead by this thought, she stayed on the leaf for days to come, for she was afraid her wings would fly away on their own and detest their owner if she had used them for longer.

    Her surroundings were unusual and raised suspicion. The butterfly straightened up and scrutinized every detail of nature; the raindrop that had fallen on another leaf hours ago, bees which kept buzzing around delightfully, and the grass which gently rocked back and forth due to the force of the wind. It wasn’t the appealing features of nature that fretted the butterfly.

    The houses, which were unseen and suspicious, stood before her eyes which were filled with teary alarm. The buildings which stood motionless had no way of harming her unless they came to life. It was the humans that scared the butterfly to the uttermost. ¨With the greatest concern I have the right to inquire; What are those overpowering creatures, stuffed, filled with all kinds of emotions and who speak their souls out? But the most vital question to consider; how do they simply do stuff without those alluring wings, let alone intolerable ones?¨ quoth the butterfly.

    Even by the perturbation of unusual surroundings, the butterfly didn’t seem convinced to fly again and still rested on the leaf, watching with astonishment now transferred from fear.

    One of those creatures stood watching her, a smile put broadly on his face. He approached the butterfly, she ceased to move, and there was a perplexing silence; then the man put his jar on top of the leaf. The butterfly pondered, with the highest interest now that she had been fascinated, the reason for this. The man looked slightly nervous when he carefully slid his hand under the jar, after he was filled with glee. “I wonder now what the rest of the scientists have to say when they see this spellbinding butterfly, most specifically her wings, captured by observant me.”

The butterfly made one last speech in regard to the world, it goes as follows, “How mournful am I to leave so beautiful a place, beautiful for its innocence and security from the human-kind; and throw myself knowingly into so grim a fate? I am the most unwise of my kind. Fresh oxygen thus to be inhaled flying around trees, nectar from the most animated flowers or the flutter of my wings leisurely inches above the soothing sea are few of a countless number of things that shall no longer be attempted by me, a desperate, imprudent butterfly whose fate would in comparison be much better if her wings were her mind. Good-bye, dear radiant flowers, vexing bees, tranquil trees, I shall remember you all with regard to the utmost, but in return will you remember me I am not so sure. With the deepest hope, I rely on my direct friends back in the land-untouched-by-humanity to make me a part of history and make my piteous story be told over and over to the next generation so that they learn… what one must endure when gifted with beautiful wings and its consequences.”

The butterflies from afar, safe and secure in the mysterious land now that winter had ceased, heard of this story one way or another and did think it was to be told; not the beauty of her wings but her foolishness. Some laughed, some idled, some stared, but none listened with the greatest possible respect. And so this is the story of the butterfly.


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