the lost man chronicles


careening through the blue nothingness

I am writing to you from the back of a butterfly.

Flying high,
we (whee!) soar and careen and gleam
in the glory of the sun,
in the most lackadaisical way,
for much of the light-drenched day
gliding,
sliding upon wafts of airÖ

Oh, how carefree and clean it is up here!

Invigorating, uplifting, intoxicatingly warm and beautiful.

The monarch and I have been touring these Elysian Fields for some time now; floating above and through and often in-between.

Occasionally, we land to feed upon the flowering milkweed, and I lounge in upon the leaves, in the shadows of pink Asclepias pistils.

Our mutual whimsies and wanderlust have carried us everywhere.

Yesterday, we explored the deep and dark caverns of a fallen log at the edge of the forest. Burrowed in the most alluring and enigmatic fashion, the termites had mysteriously abandoned the trunk long ago, leaving behind a wonderful labyrinth of dimly lit crevices that inspire the imagination as you go and weave through them; so much so, that it is easy to get lost in this maze of amazing tales that magically replay themselves at each corner crossed and through every false turn leading to a dead end.

We are never are ground-bound for long though, for my butterfly and I are more often taken to fantastic flights of harrowing twists and graceful turns.

At first, I reeled in the whirlwind, the seemingly never-ending vertigo. Gratefully, I quickly acclimated well enough though, so that now I thoroughly enjoy every thrilling spill and plunge and lunge forward through blue nothingness.

I especially enjoy the ride knowing that I am safe from falling. For we employ a single strand of silk webbing to secure me to her. And I must say that it is remarkable how strong and resilient a spiderís line can be.

And so, nestled in the fold of her golden wings, we like to go everywhere our fancy leads us, freely wandering; often singing silly songs, accompanied by the soft patter of wings at my sides serving as the rhythmic percussion.

Anyway, tenderly, I disclose that my maripose is leaving me soon.

She says she is off to Monterey, to nestle in the cool furrow of coastal trees, to rest and return and to be at ease; to be one with nature, to nurture a fate determined long before we ever met.

The news of course at first whet an anxiety of separation, and in turn, subsequent to my resignation, admittedly, I wallowed a bit in sorrow.

Ah, but the sad tomorrow is now today, and I am gay once again. For I realize that even after Iíve taken my last ride, I will have this feeling inside, a fluttering, a happy memory that I have ridden, and will have experienced something far more wonderful than most others ever do.

from the back of a butterfly,
yours




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