ORIGINS: Fairies have butterfly wings, the jewels they wear are very shiny, and they have deep roots in their land. That is why we thought of butterflies attracted to the light (even though usually that’s something moths do) in a place illuminated by lamps.
If there was still an ounce of wonder left inside me, if there was still a flame inside my lamp, I would be out there chasing butterflies. Trying to find a fairy. One that would be willing to share her magic with me. But there is not. I’m all grown up. And my only saving grace is knowing that at least I didn’t kill my own innocence. That there was glass between me and those butterflies. That my flame never touched them. And it was something else, the words, the actions of someone else, that burned those butterflies in front of my eyes.
Don’t worry, little butterfly. Just follow the lights. They will bring you here, to this swamp, where we will be waiting for you. Once, we were lost too. But then we found one another, we formed a flutter of butterflies. Right here. In this swamp. Close, so close to the lights. Don’t worry, little butterfly. Soon, very soon, you won’t want to be anywhere else. You won’t miss the place where you came from. You will have us. All you will ever need. Light to help you forget. And water to embrace you. Tightly. Very tightly. Just like a home would feel like.
It’s a fairytale love. Between a beast and his beauty. If they were aboard a ship, this lamp would be a lighthouse, and they would be able to arrive safe and soundly to the end of their story. But this is a cliff. A lovers’ cliff. And even I know how those stories end. Even I know that the light is always too little, too late.
I am weary after my long journey. My raincoat is drenched. My feet hurt. But a butterfly tells me to look on the bright side. That the flame inside my lamp still burns brightly, that the rain didn’t douse it. And I want to scream, that she doesn’t know what she is talking about. That I have never seen a butterfly fluttering in the rain. That I have only seen them staying still, until the drops are gone from their wings. I want to scream, that at least I went on a journey. That I always had a destination in mind, even if it wasn’t the place where I am now. But I bite my tongue. Because arguing with a butterfly won’t get me anywhere.