Friday, 15 July 2011

Happiness and the butterfly.

What is it like to be a butterfly, a butterfly fluttering hither and thither, a fluttering butterfly, a happy butterfly showing off to the world one's inherent natural nature and doing things as one pleased?

Maybe we all have to be earthly caterpillars before we can appreciate the freedom of being a butterfly.

Between a man and a butterfly there is necessarily a distinction. One must leap into the boundlessness of being a butterfly and make it one's home to live in every day.

The butterfly roams free, flitting from flower to flower taking what it has to offer. The butterfly is a free spirit in the world, can you say the same thing?

Thursday, 14 July 2011

Meaning is relative to where you stand, while the butterfly flies everywhere it means to.

Talking less than sense about the flight of the butterfly only makes good sense to those who do not know what it means, as if you can master a lack of sense as well you have already learned to master the lack of sense inherent in any words of more meaning than can be said in so short a time as to make any difference to it at all.

But do not reject these flightly sayings as false-truths out of hand, out of thin air, merely because you have nothing relevant to say in their defence: try to fly with the butterfly in the defence of all truth, all truth that cannot immediately be said dispassionately, of all truth that needs to be defended with the observation that everything is true until proven false.

Even the curse of continued civilisation, in its repetitive recreations, reflects this unfortunate division, but the flight of the butterfly negates its inconsequentiality to the finest degree: through belief in its meaning.

Bright the flight of the butterfly flitting among the daffodils.

Insipient destiny: go for the butterfly’s approach path.

Tomorrow may be rainy and wet and cloudy and miserable, so, when the relative meaninglessness of being without all relative meaning is overcast in dejection, then follow the sun as it shines in the skies to metamorphosis on the gleaming way.

But think: the butterflies know not now what they do, as they are without good mirrors for themselves, yet, it is never enough for them to know that they do not know what it means, even for themselves.

But in thy flight in fright, be still, as what is so, is so; what is not, is not; and what will be, will be. This is constant.

Bright the beat of the butterfly's wings is on the empty skies above us.

Flighty flying butterfly: flighty fence against irresolution.

With persons unbeknownst in their crazily-meaninglessness of existential non-meaning, in hunting in the dark with a net to catch all with, only one question remains: Should one kill a butterfly with passion? with gusto? or with indifference? This is the question they can only answer, not know.

The mind of the butterfly turns along with myriad situations while it sits nibbling titbits of inconstant interjections upon the turn of a flower's head: its turning point is truly recondite.

Hail to the butterfly! Its freedom to fly unhindered in the mind's eye is truly incomparable, as there is nothing to compare it with - hail to the butterfly!

Thus this, in flying free, the butterfly knows all too well, and so is on the long list.

The butterfly in its inordinate correctitude.

Hail happy voyager! See the butterfly's flight as it chafes against mystic memories in the wind upon clumsy storms in the skies. See it fly free as it mounts furtively upon the clarity of the liquidic sky. Watch its inordinate attempts, flapping wisps among discordant segments of sky insipid in its oracular vision of flightlyness.

Is it not also in the wind? Has it not also been foretold? Climb with me in sheer non-being, in sheer openings of a new dawn. Come, we shall go together.

See the butterfly dip and manoeuvre in the winds of fate and chance! Is this not also of you? Is this not also in your heart today?

Discordant winds whoosh furtively among the rocks, but we do not see them. Our eyes are wide and we see the ultimate destination. Our fate is set: we are, we shall be, we shall not be, we do not mind.

Bright the butterfly's flight on the liquid skies.

Wednesday, 13 July 2011

Seeking new truths in the flapping of the butterfly’s wings.

The last truth before the new endings of other flapping things upon clumsy landings is let fly into the wind: the butterfly is told its truth in wisps of flightlyness.

The problems of discord are solved in the butterfly's flight. Bright is the butterfly's flight path on the empty sky. Bright is the truth of the butterfly's wings: full of colour but their colour is vacancy, is all reflection.

Light spreads its mesh in fine strands upon the perceptions of the mind. All hail the butterfly and its quest for completeness.

Think of the butterfly, my fellow butterfly: the quest for the moment in us all in a fleeting instant continues in its present absence from our consciousnesses like an abscess on our brains.

My Life as a Butterfly.

What does it feel like to be a butterfly flitting on the wind? We all start as eggs. We go on to be caterpillars. We sleep in our cocoons before daybreak. We fly as butterflies flitting in the sun.

But it all ends: have a good time while we can all fly like butterflies. We come, we go; we are, we are not here.

We must all be more like conscientious butterflies flitting in the wind, floating over the flowers, creating more or less happyness as we go along our merry way, flitting-by in the wind.

This is my life as a free-thinking butterfly.

Love sprints with the butterfly, it flies free and easy in the wind.

Hail the wind and the butterfly! That which is will be and so become even more than that, even change into something else in a chrysalis of light. This is the time of the butterfly that flits in and out of the flowers on a tryst with fate.

That which will happen will happen, that which has been is done. Hail to the butterfly that flits about.

All see where it alights: on a flower. It works, it functions, it follows its purpose, and in doing so is love made visible. Look at its flight, lovely creature that it is: it flys free as a humming bird in its chosen direction. It can never falter while it flies so.

Do not begrudge the freely-done flight of the butterfly in the limpid skies above.

Tuesday, 12 July 2011

The windy butterfly sees the path that is set upon the infinite.

Forever I love the well-made arrow that flies straight, forever it goes flitting straight to its intended target my naked heart. This is it: I am I, here and now. I go, I fly to my target. I love also the bow that is held stable in the breeze simply by the weight of a butterfly alighting upon its top-notch.

I fly like a butterfly to my flower, the flower that I feed at as it flows with me in the wind. Good flower, good butterfly. We are one at the joining, in the wind.

Also, if I fly I fly as straight as an arrow, in the wind I fly, straight to my goal. Good wind, jolly wind off of the hills and in the dales: The wind is my freedom.

The windy-gust is my metronome, it gusts with me; it beats with my heart to show me the way. I fly free in the wind. Good wind, free wind. I fly, soar and am free in the blustery wind.

I am a butterfly. This is my pledge, this is my word.