June
Friday 12 February 2010 photo 5/5
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Why were butterflies so beautiful?
They floated and flittered about, placing light, chaste kisses on vibrantly blooming flowers, heavy with morning dew and renewed life.
Wings gracefully fluttered, a spectrum of colors and more, anything one could have ever imagined present on small, paper-thin canvases; intricate designs dusted each, catching the eye and holding it prisoner with its beauty.
But such fickle creatures.
Try to get close to them, try to love them and they would fly away, whispers of laughter echoing through the skies; they were bound to no one but the ever open, limitless horizon, serving their master dutifully until the end of their too ephemeral life.
It wasn’t fair.
Such delicacy and splendor should be forever appreciated, ever frozen in time to be admired and looked upon. Never touching of course; soiled hands were not allowed to mar the untainted beings.
But he could touch all he wanted.
All that was needed was a net and patience; patience, patience, endless patience—if one was too hasty, the butterfly would become frightened and fly away and if one was too slow, one would fail to catch the impish creature. One had to draw the net ever so gently—so carefully—
And one would have art worthy of being called a prize.
Fragile; marvelous; an awe-inspiring organism that one could then control, tame to the life of being only a work of art.
But how were such things displayed?
A smile.
He supposed that was what the pins and inescapable, latched box were for.
His own butterfly now lay entrapped in his snare, drawn in by warmth and a soft embrace; exquisite crimsons, azures and pearly whites painted his wings, the slight appendages marked with stripes and stars.
Such a rarity.
He simply had to keep this one in the collection.
Now; where to place that final pin?
A murmur; heated breath against cool skin.
"Mother is sure that the little patriot has a good reason for being late, da?"
The playful creature immediately stiffened, its entire body tensing with surprise and fear.
Ah ah; too late to escape now, my toy.
His prize.
His love.
You belong to me.
They floated and flittered about, placing light, chaste kisses on vibrantly blooming flowers, heavy with morning dew and renewed life.
Wings gracefully fluttered, a spectrum of colors and more, anything one could have ever imagined present on small, paper-thin canvases; intricate designs dusted each, catching the eye and holding it prisoner with its beauty.
But such fickle creatures.
Try to get close to them, try to love them and they would fly away, whispers of laughter echoing through the skies; they were bound to no one but the ever open, limitless horizon, serving their master dutifully until the end of their too ephemeral life.
It wasn’t fair.
Such delicacy and splendor should be forever appreciated, ever frozen in time to be admired and looked upon. Never touching of course; soiled hands were not allowed to mar the untainted beings.
But he could touch all he wanted.
All that was needed was a net and patience; patience, patience, endless patience—if one was too hasty, the butterfly would become frightened and fly away and if one was too slow, one would fail to catch the impish creature. One had to draw the net ever so gently—so carefully—
And one would have art worthy of being called a prize.
Fragile; marvelous; an awe-inspiring organism that one could then control, tame to the life of being only a work of art.
But how were such things displayed?
A smile.
He supposed that was what the pins and inescapable, latched box were for.
His own butterfly now lay entrapped in his snare, drawn in by warmth and a soft embrace; exquisite crimsons, azures and pearly whites painted his wings, the slight appendages marked with stripes and stars.
Such a rarity.
He simply had to keep this one in the collection.
Now; where to place that final pin?
A murmur; heated breath against cool skin.
"Mother is sure that the little patriot has a good reason for being late, da?"
The playful creature immediately stiffened, its entire body tensing with surprise and fear.
Ah ah; too late to escape now, my toy.
His prize.
His love.
You belong to me.
Jag vet iallafall att jag gillar RussAmerica pga smexigt powerplay~ =w=
Där kan man snacka om powerplay~
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