I am to be reincarnated as a butterfly. Apparently, such are the calculations of my life, but I won’t remember when I’m fluttering around. Cosmic irony.
Chrysalis, emergence, exploration.
Stretch of wings. Large light, spears of green, highlighted blotches of shiny violet. A spill of glorious hue, colour, vibrance. Over there, more interest, shapes, something good. Fly towards. Extension of proboscis. Drink. Sweet.
Sudden movement. Fly away, go, but hit something. Go again, hit something. Frantic.
Something changes. What’s different?
Descension of pin.
That life was too short, I’m told. I am to be reincarnated as a butterfly again.
Writing begun 23-09-16 | 99 words