And Then Awoke The Butterfly

a story by Yoshino

I awoke to a strange sensation, an uneasy tension that refused to dissipate. My heart was pounding, beating against my chest like a captive bird. I realized there was a piece of paper jutting out of my typewriter - a poem, but I had no recollection of writing it.

I sat up in bed, my mind disoriented. How did I get here? Where am I? The last thing I could remember was the softness of the pillow caressing my cheek and my eyelids fluttering shut.

As I read the words on the page before me, I was struck by the perfectly inscribed document and felt a sense of familiarity. I couldn't shake the feeling that this poem may have held some deeper meaning or perhaps a truth waiting to be uncovered. I took pen to paper, determined to unravel the mystery behind my nocturnal transcription. I analyzed the structure of the poem, the rhyming scheme, and the imagery.

And so began my obsession with the analysis of dreams. I devoured books and articles, desperate for answers. I kept a dream journal, recording every detail, every fleeting thought that passed through my mind as I slept. Days turned into weeks as I would go to bed with a sense of anticipation, eager to see what secrets my subconscious mind would reveal to me. I was searching for some hidden meaning, some elusive truth that lurked just beyond my grasp. I began to notice patterns in my dreams - recurring symbols and themes that seemed to hold significance. A repeating dream about being in high school, a steamy locker room where I was the only person searching in an incessant mist. Another night, I had a vivid dream about a butterfly struggling to emerge from its cocoon. I watched as it flapped its wings, trying to break free from its confining shell. But no matter how hard it tried, it couldn't seem to escape.

---

The dream about the butterfly stayed with me for days, haunting me like a puzzle that I couldn't solve. I began to see butterflies everywhere - at the flower shop, in murals on the street, in the natural world outside my window. 

In fact, the other day, while walking through the Botanical Gardens in Curitiba, I saw the same cocoon from my dream. It was as if the dream had taken on a life of its own, a symbol that refused to be ignored.

I couldn't help but feel a sense of confusion as I sat down on a nearby bench and watched the cocoon break apart. The butterfly inside was going through a profound transformation, changing from a creature that crawled on the ground to one that could fly freely through the air. The cocoon began to move, wriggling and pulsating as the butterfly inside struggled to break free. Finally, with a burst of energy, the butterfly emerged - a Menelaus Blue Morpho, its wings still wet and crumpled from the struggle. As it unfurled its wings and took flight for the first time, I couldn't help but feel a sense of hope as I watched it fly with such grace, illuminated by its blue metallic luster in the glistening sun.

Some cultures believe that if you witness a Blue Morpho being born, it is an opportunity to make a wish. I made one privately for myself to keep.

In that moment, I knew that I too was going through a transformation. The dreams that had been haunting me were a sign that I was ready to shed my old skin and emerge as something new.

As I walked away from the cocoon, I couldn't help but wonder what other secrets the universe had in store for me. I continued to explore the mysteries of my own mind, searching for the truth that lay hidden within. I did so with a newfound sense of purpose, knowing that every dream and every symbol was a signpost on my journey of self-discovery.

Then the butterfly flew towards me. I put my hand out for it to perch. To my surprise, it landed directly in the palm of my hand, and we shared a few seconds of connection in this strange and unexpected occurrence. I watched it, and then drew it closer to my gaze. It fluttered away and gently landed on a flower. 

As soon as I looked over, time seemed to redefine itself, and I could see the beats in my chest ripple through the air as sound waves thudded and came into focus. A pigeon then swooped down and devoured the butterfly. I stood there, watching it being consumed inch by inch, the pigeon tearing the butterfly apart with its sharp beak. The gruesome scene unfolded before my eyes in slow motion as if time itself had slowed down to prolong the agony of the butterfly's demise. The pigeon's beak, razor-sharp and unrelenting, pierced the delicate wings of the butterfly, shredding them to pieces. Feathery plumes of downy white fluff mingled with the vibrant hues of the butterfly's wings, as the pigeon continued to ravage its prey with primal fervor.

The pigeon finished its feast and flew away, leaving behind nothing but a few scraps of torn wings and antennae.

And there I stood, in silence.

---