Like most other nights in my life, I've preferred doing something else to sleeping. Studying, thinking, walking in the sitting room, and just like now, surfing the Net.
You know I think surfing the Net is not a good phrase. I think digging the Net is more suitable. Because most of the time I feel I've got a shovel in my hands and aimlessly digging a wide land called the Internet, rather than being on a surfing board.
There were loads of webpages open, and there was my blog page open too, waiting for me to update on it.
I had a good idea to write about till I saw something in the sitting room when I walked to the kitchen to make hot chocolate.
Let's get back to 2 nights ago:
It was raining heavily, and I left the sitting room windows open. I was doing my stuff when suddenly a big white butterfly came in and started flying here and there. It was running away from the rain and the sitting room was a kind of haven for it. I was looking at this beautiful thing and enjoyed watching it flying. And I thought how cool it is to see a white butterfly in a rainy stormy night, like when that man in Edgar Allen Poe's poem Raven was doing his stuff when suddenly a raven "rapped at his chamber door".
I'm not superstitious, but I've always considered white butterflies a good sign. I always want to think they carry a good message with them. So despite the Raven, it didn't tell me "Nevermore".
But tonight I was going to the kitchen when I saw a sad scene. There was the butterfly dead on the floor and lots of ants around it. Its big white wings were still open. I thought maybe I keep its dead body and keep its beauty before ants turn it into thousand pieces. Suddenly my memory flashed back to many, many years ago.
I was a child, 2 or 3 years old. I was with my dad standing in the yard, and there was this big barrel of oil in the yard. A butterfly was flying by when it suddenly went straight into the oil and died there. My dad took it out, put a pin in its dead body and put it on a picture frame in our hall. It was there for a long time.
But I don't like to keep a dead thing. Like I don't like to keep dead memories. So I let ants eat it and enjoy their festive meal.
As I was going to the kitchen, I saw a tiny black beetle which entered the sitting room on that night the butterfly came. It was still alive, resting on the wall strongly.
Then I understood it. Beauty dies soon.