Memoirs Of A Butterfly 2

There’s a strange atmosphere in this place. The brightly coloured houses, the cheery tourist shops, all make it so vivid and alive. But its history is in death1

The morbid ‘museums’ of tacky fake monsters remind of the persecution of the unknown. When centuries ago, people encountered what they couldn’t explain, the sought a scape goat. A harmless enough idea, until the scape goat is hung from a tree by their neck.2

The idea of a scape goat is barbaric in itself. Sending an animal into the desert, burdened down, knowing you send it to its death; and then to say that it cleanses you. Defeating sins with cruelty. It all comes down to martyrdom really. Only martyrdom is infinitely more appealing as a spectator.3

But I digress. My focus: the unfortunate witches of darker times. Ahem. A prime example of the understatement. And nature, which can be supremely twisted when the mood takes it. You can see it in the jealousy of the grass and the anger of the rose. Bitterness born of rich soil. Not always, of course. Nature gives birth to all life. It is the palate of all colour. But something that gives life only to take it – there’s something bizarre there.4

There’s a magnificent tree in this place. It is proudly crowned a hanging tree. A strange thing to take pride in. but it is a proud looking tree, braches reaching high in the air curling around itself, daring anyone to come near. No one does. Even the birds pass by, glancing once and gliding away. Even the carrion stay away from here, and to see them circle away paints a picture straight out of a cliché. 5

The strong arms of the tree reach out, shrouded by rough bark. The texture is wrought with leathery fingerprints, which twine amongst each other like a chain of bound hands. The patterns dance and twirl as I stare too long; as I blink they settle into an age old pattern. Stories of martyrdom and its spectators. The sun watches me, the only remaining spectator from those crowds. I couldn’t say if their were a god, but the sun is as omniscient as any deity. It sees all, and dictates our day. When it sets, everyone disappears, except those few, those who head down into underground halls to lose themselves in music and alcohol, and the moths.6

But, butterfly that I am, I thrive in the daylight. Or as well as any butterfly with a useless wing can thrive. I manage well enough – the wind that traverses the country from coast to coast can more than carry a light scrap of insect like myself. Strong hands lifting me and supporting me, then dropping me haphazardly when that is its humour. I often wonder if the wind is bitter at its invisibility – omnipresent, so vital to nature which is so vital to life, but only ever mentioned to insult the weather, to complain. It must beak down your self worth. I think this, hear the wind howl its anguish and think yes, the breeze aches and whistles its soul away.7