Saturday, March 10, 2012

A Fly Flies, A Butterfly Dies

It's 5 a.m. over here. I should normally be in my bed like any other human, but I'm not.

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.

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