Monday, August 18, 2014


   This afternoon, I stepped onto the patio into the dry, summer sun. My first outing of the entire day. Against the forest green vines I noticed my soul animal, a little, white butterfly. I always notice them. I don't know why I relate. Maybe I want to be like them: Small, light, happy. Quiet, humble. Free.
   I watched the humble, little bug freely flap her wings through the sunbeams,  contentedly. Out for an afternoon summer stroll. Upon looking closer, however, I noticed that one of the butterfly's wings had seemingly been torn off, leaving little behind than enough to keep her afloat. How was she flying with such a deformity? What laws of physics was she defying in order to dance through the air?
   Before I had noticed her mangled wing, the way she flew really did seem like a dance. When I eventually saw it, the dance turned into a limp, but nothing had shifted in her movement except my perspective. Why couldn't she still be as free as before I noticed her scars? They had always been there, and I admired her effortlessness.
   Is the glass half full, or no? The wounds from her past made her more beautiful and dance more freely than she ever could have before them.
"I would rather break my own heart
(and tumble apart)
Than stay intact only to keep alive"

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