“Do Butterflies Think On Their Youth?”
by Samuel Lisec
I used to be exactly like you. I was born into this slimy world, perched up somewhere high, and the first thing I did was look out in a fit of terror. The sun was slipping like a tear down the sky and all of the light I had ever seen was now falling over the hills, being laid to rest. I thought, is it always going to be like this? Or was I born at just the right time to witness the world in the throes of irrevocable change? A stream of warm, sullen breezes buffeted me senseless, and while I clutched the leaf I laid upon tightly, its waxy surface only felt lifeless and mechanical. So I stood up on all of my legs and flailed my grubby hands into the air, grasping nothing. I was alone and the only things around me were these flowers, these leaves, these eggs—all of them empty, just as mine now was. Where did they all go? Goodbye, I mumbled. That first night I lived must be how you feel now. Believe me, you will not stay in this form forever.