We Are The Wings Of The Butterfly
Inspired by E.F. Schumacher.
I don’t exist,
Honestly, listen, I’m not all there,
I’m up in the sky, a part of the stars,
Just light reflected back by the bits that hold weight,
Fired out with a bang,
As this own discussion,
Ended before I’ve even begun,
Proudly part of the ‘ninety-nine percent’,
That is absolute space,
Empty shells full of so much potential, love and disgrace,
We think there’s so much within,
How could we be so wrong?
Man is small,
And small is beautiful,
In the mind’s eye,
To put the emphasis on the visible,
When it’s the little not the grand that matters,
That causes it all,
Our greatest accomplishments and our furthest falls,
Smallest wins and massive sins,
Do I feel detached, or too blended in?
Wait, hold that thought…
I’m not pissed off, out of my mind,
Lost along the rabbit hole,
Or forest of locked jaws and knocking knees,
I’ve maybe just missed the point, of all of this ‘bliss’,
Following along random lines without an excuse,
Whilst I’ve been kicking up leaves,
And trying to breathe,
Between the first pages of the manual,
And wherever I put it down,
The given template found boring,
A guide that perplexed,
With each page that was turned,
I disagreed more with the text,
Now running freely abound, head in the clouds,
With independent ideas of what it is that life should be,
And the incorrect notion that its best teacher is, me.
I tried to branch out, process the fruits as presented,
Knowledge picked from the tree,
Natural, open, and deliciously scented,
Put all together,
Still don’t know what it means,
Any more than you do,
I suppose I just like learning, pretending at things,
Plucking the seams,
Peeking behind the veil,
Using any and all means,
At least that’s how it appears,
You cannot deny, this has an appeal,
Calm, don’t look at me sideways when I tell you my dreams.
I know you have them too,
That’s what keeps the smile real.
Though have you noticed, they all look the same,
Our processes unbalanced, though powerful, insane,
From back here where it all feels developed,
I say,
“Well that’s just my brain,”
“My way,”
“That makes me unique,”
But before I make that claim,
The synapses misfire,
And with that need to speak,
My mouth creates yet more grief,
I need to lose my grasp,
Collect my cap,
See I’m the same kind of crazy, and that thought is not bleak,
Gaining connection being triumphant feat.
Man is small,
And small is beautiful,
In the mind’s eye,
To put the emphasis on the visible,
When it’s the little not the grand that matters,
That causes it all,
Our greatest accomplishments and our furthest falls,
Smallest wins and massive sins,
Do I feel detached, or too blended in?
These thoughts give me relief,
Though it only grips for a moment,
Before the internal movement aims with order to restore,
Thinking that previously occupied these shores,
What was once past, policed with vengeance,
Does not willingly shift,
As the wires connect, and the gap does regress,
These feelings continue to swell,
Swiftly returns the mental hell,
Of inferring invincibility,
Being the best,
The ego has landed, the body takes care of the rest,
Doing what it’s told,
Till I’m Saved By The Bell,
The pedestrian pleasure still not a hard sell,
See I’m weak, distracted, enamoured and often awed,
Meek, to the chaotic operation of life, which all seems too serious,
To call it polite,
Surprised by self experience,
And to tasteful applause delirious,
All in equal measure,
Delivered at the same instance, and without pause.
That’s why sometimes I want to jump back to my original cause.
To not existing.
…but then I’d miss the butterflies,
The rise and wane of night,
Agreement and opinion,
Battle hardened love songs and cobbled together lies,
Our time is running out,
How can I be carbon neutral when I want to burn so bright?
That’s why I’ve made it my mission,
To stop, look and listen,
As much as I can,
At least that was the plan,
To take it all in, as if missing out was a crime,
Watching until all motion blurred around me, vision slurring,
The walls presently pulled apart without fright,
Behind which was a mirror and what this play was about,
I could feel the writer’s pen at His paper,
His voice crying out,
And behind it I saw evil,
And with it came doubt.
I stopped, my train of thought dead in its tracks,
With all this new information who was I to attack?
Man is so small,
And small truly is beautiful,
We’d see that if we tried,
No emphasis placed on the considerable,
Efforts we expend to make life matter,
Worthy, original,
Seeking the individual,
That causes it all,
Our greatest accomplishments and our furthest falls,
Smallest wins and massive sins,
Do I feel detached, or too blended in?
Taken aback by this, I then felt refreshed,
In fact delighted that in the mirror there was equal blame,
The pen was in my hand,
Because I was looking at the universe I was standing in,
The very one and the same,
I felt I could heal,
Hurts first dulled, then dissolved,
Reach out and with colour paint the scene,
Join the dots between galaxies, or create love between friends,
Anything…
In my power was the means to the end,
Something new needed be done, or eyes sent away,
But if all turned to static black,
Door closed firm, no,
It would not be just in shutting down,
Nothing would shine out,
No one over our shoulder watching,
Or answers to why,
Then thinking became bolder,
It hit me right there, I didn’t want to cover up this sight,
And with it the shame,
Most of it didn’t exist, including the pain,
So little was matter,
Most merely light,
Journeying unimaginable space,
To reach us inside,
We butterflies can flutter here,
Can make all this right.
