Each time I look at a butterfly, I think "Who created them? Who had abduntance of paitence to paint their tiny wings, with such astounding shades and patterns?" When I was younger and every explanation was the product of my limitless and vivid imagination. I would tell myself that none of the wonderful painters of the past, had just died and left, but are sitting in pretty golden chairs in the cloud kingdoms, painting the butterflies. Because such precision could only be achieved by the creator of the Vitruvian man himself.
It seems silly that I genuinely believed that when a butterfly died, it turned into fairy dust which when sprinkled on someone, helped them fly.
Right now, all those thoughts seem unrealistic and funny.But I am most certainly envious of the child who was able to create magic and happiness.
Magic fades with age.
And the loss of childhood, is always lamentable.
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