Sometimes beauty is found in a painted picture, that only the artists comprehends. Sometimes power is felt in a dance, that only the performers understand. And sometimes there is a magnificence in words, that only the writer can translate. Perhaps, that is the beauty of art, allowing each of us to reach our own conclusion. From Toronto, Canada a young writer presents The White Butterfly. The beauty in his words, lies in the mystery of their intent.
Originally written September 1, at 3 p.m.
Tranquil. That’s how I’d describe the moment. But not a good type of tranquility: it isn’t the kind that simply drowns out the background noise and let’s you get lost in your own thoughts; it’s not the kind that soothes every nerve to the point of ecstasy. This tranquility is almost superficial. It is what is imposed on you by the elements – by circumstance.
It is the dead calm of the day. It is the single and distant bird whistle or squawk. It is the all-too-audible humming of some machine. It is the lonesome white butterfly making its way through the wind, seemingly lost. The sky torments me: the dead, grey lump above me that threatens me with a deluge, but dares not move a muscle. It doesn’t even breathe hard, for the trees don’t dance. A few shake their…
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