I grasped onto the butterfly for dear life, but what a fool was I. I ripped its wings and bent my wrist, all the while kneeling on the floor. I tried to patch it up, and keep it close to my heart in my hands, only to have it suffocate and leave me in tears.
Only a fool grips onto a butterfly—I was the only one who ever did. All the butterfly did was try to run away, to escape me for my grip was too tight. Everything about it was fleeting, and I was an eternal person. That terrible butterfly left me in bits, but it was so beautiful.
One day when I was in mourning I saw another butterfly, and this one poised itself so lightly on my hand and it would not leave. Then I realized that I didn’t have to grip a butterfly, the butterfly would keep its grip on me. I erased all of the black for my life and I allowed the color of that new butterfly to fly into me.