Spring

Every time I start writing something here, the Medium prompt starts with “Tell your story”. And I end up doing that. Tell a bit of me through every piece I write, every story I bring up, every joke I say. There’ll be a bit of me in everything.

How wonderfully are human beings connected? Every string connects people in a beautiful web. The architecture is so beautiful that follows a predetermined plan, making a safe space for them.

But, for a butterfly that has been trapped in the web, the marvelous architecture doesn't make sense. The notion of safety is at bay. The uniformity of the paths does not guide the creature to find a way out — to fly to the world where it belongs.

I am a butterfly. With blue and grey wings. You can touch me, and I‘ll leave a dust of tint on you. Bt every time I try to bring colors to your fingers, a part of my strength drains, losing my will to find the path out of the web, making myself a camouflaged part of the system. And if I try to spread my wings and flap them hard enough to break the web, they were sure to be cut away.

Maybe, the escape is just an illusion. An illusion that makes the butterflies crave hopes. Just like happiness. The more you seek for it, the greedier you become. Spring is over and the flowers that had the potion of illusion has fallen. Maybe, if you hang in there and wait till the next spring, you might get to taste it again. Maybe, be greedy to long for another spring.