Stories as Fragile as Butterfly Wings

 When I started writing my blog I wanted to share my story, I have been told it’s an interesting one, and I believe it so. I also believe every person has an intimate and beautiful story that most of us will never see or hear, because something is lost in telling, even if you are one of brave few who try. So I began, but was barely able to scratch the surface. What I have found in my evolution as a blogger/writer, is that I am more inclined to share my thoughts, or stream of consciousness, and my opinions, (being both steadfast and flexible in my beliefs), than I am to chronicle my life.  

Perhaps it’s the narcissism, of someone who feels as if the world can't live without seeing what is in the dark recesses of her mind. Maybe it’s just the voice of someone who has in the past felt unheard and now shouts from the tops of mountains, finding comfort in the sound of her own voice. Whatever it is, I am driven to turn my thoughts inside out and expose them to light, all my musings, both the joyful and miserable.

But even more so, I feel that my musings are like lifting mental weights, practice for something more. I am still quite inadequate at expressing my thoughts as I want to. I have beautiful thoughts floating around in my mind like little orbs of light, beautiful colors and sounds and smells, only lasting a fleeting moment and then they are gone. I try to capture as many as I can, but I always seem to fall desperately short.  Like chasing a beautiful butterfly through a field of daisies, what will you do with it even if you are able catch it? Sometimes catching it harms the fragile creature, if your touch is not delicate enough.

Sometimes there are a few beautiful moments, when my thoughts transform from those little orbs of light, or fluttering wings, to something poetic and pure, in black and white on the page, but that is infrequent.  I have words like incandescent, and indelible, puritanical and putrid, audacity and auspicious, floating around in my brain…just words by themselves but to capture them, to use them to tell a story, to make someone hear, see and experience  almost as clearly as I do, what I am trying to express... is elusive.

And so I write…I write and write and write. Sometimes it’s dull and disappointing, (or dismal and drab if I feel poetic) But sometimes, very very infrequently, I capture a light, it’s like the words flow through me, they are of me, and are mine, but also take on a life of their own.  Fragile and yet tangible, and I am able to use those words to paint the pictures in my mind. It’s those moments I write for.

Thank you dear reader, for wading through the dismal and drab, for the rare gem, the fragile butterfly, that is a fleeting glimpse of the little lights in my mind.