Butterfly Dreams
Commentarius: Dream of Butterflies
© Ilah, 2000In the long ago sun drenched days of childhood we lived in a world where the the ancient myths and fairy tales of yore were only a breath away. Where the realm of imagination painted everything around us in glorious colors, each brighter and more vibrant than the next, and the air was filled with the flutter of multi-hued dreams of butterfly wings.
As we grew older the dreams faded; became gray and colorless, washed parchment dry beneath the arid touch of adult cares and worries. The world became no place for fairy tales - there were no princesses any more, and no princes to ride to their rescue. The butterflies were all lost in the gathering dusk, and only the feathery touch of moth wings brushed us then.
But that was when we were mortal.
And now, with all eternity stretched before our feet like an endless beach of glittering crystal where the waves of time wash forever... still we turn our steps to the paths we learned as mortal men, where the light is dim and the sound muted and the moths flutter only sullenly through heavy air.
You would argue. You would say we are worse then men - we are damned, the dead who walk the earth, killers without cause. To you, the world is drenched only in night, cold and dark, without the warm glimmer of redeeming light.
Is the light of the moon so distasteful? Are the stars in their heavens so very dreary? We forever lust after that which we do not have, and so the warmth of the sun and the blue of the summer sky become our ideals. To you they become the symbol of our damnation, for every creature upon this earth may feel their touch except for us. Only we alone are so fallen from grace that we are denied those basic things.
I think you are wrong, my friend. Might we not, in fact, be children? We rise, reborn, from the grasp of death... do we not live again? The light of the moon is the reflection of the sun we remember - it shines for us alone, when all the rest of the world overlooks it. If we looked - truly looked - might we not rediscover the wonder of fairy tales and butterflies?
You look at me and say that there are no butterflies at night.
Don't scoff. Even moths are beautiful, their soft wings dyed in deep vibrant shades to rival any bright sun kissed butterfly. One only has to learn to look - the world we lost is only as far away as the fairy tales were when we were children.