Somewhere pitiful and somehow inviting. By chance it pleases the eye in a way that can’t be retold or validated. It just sways in a way that pulls you with it. It sways in a way that forces you to believe that all else swaying is in fact holding still. Waiting for a reason to begin, with knowledge that the reason they seek is not seeking them, that it may perhaps never come.
One too many words. One too many butterflies.
There’s no grey here, only colour. There’s only colour if you allow your eyes to believe it. There’s a child playing in the monochrome fields, exhilarated by the abundance of vibrancy, the diversity of hues and tones. He grows and forgets the colours, he’s told they aren’t real, that his experience is an irrelevant illusion that no one else feels. He is now blind and old, tired of the dull landscapes that once told him stories of limitless outcomes. Now he thinks he knows everything and will never see how wrong he is.
One too many lies. One too many butterflies.
Fly down. Lie to us all about loving yourself again. It’s okay to be afraid of a colour. It’s okay to be okay with hate. The knowledge you have is asking you to wonder where one draws the line when it comes to killing. Is any justice worth implementing? Is any forgiveness worth giving? I say yes, with a fear of neglecting a chance to implement constructive change.
One too many times. One too many butterflies.
Eat child. Put some flesh on those bones or you’ll fall through the floor just like you secretly wanted. Who gets to chose at the end of the day? Who gets the last say in deciphering another humans freedom? I’d say it’s them. But my observations say I’m wrong.
“That’s not okay”, but who am I to say?
I didn’t chose to be here and i can’t chose to leave and life’s a larger representation of how fucked that logic is.
My windshield has crushed one too many butterflies for me to be an optimist.