A monarch butterfly. A daydream.

Flutters around the edges of our consciousness, skimming the flowers about to bloom, hardly noticeable then all consuming. Our eyes glazing over, a subtle smile touching our lips. The original objective at hand forever lost in our minds, left to wander the twisting nerves alone. A monarch takes the place of the abdicated thought-that-must-not-be-so-important-after-all.

Vignetting our reality, morphing our perception and taking us to where we’d rather be, carrying us on its fragile wings. It lets us see what we want to see before it dies, thin glass wings shattered by the sheer weight of our burdens. In the fragments of the broken pieces, we see our desires but also ourselves. Our faces twisted by want-but-cannot-have, yet convinced that the shape of the cracked glass, the bent light, is what is making us ugly.

As we fall from our high, our butterfly in the sky, we are taken away from the promise land, that was never promised in the first place. We went in knowing it was a temporary release, relaxing for only a fraction of time, to be taken away at the clock’s next chime. But the temporary paradise that fogs up our eyes gives us a rush that can be duplicated in no other way than getting what we dreamed of.

Unfortunately, we cannot get what we dreamed of by dreaming on false butterflies.


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