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Location:Texas, USA Naturalized US Citizen of Irish extract -   Fixed Wing and Helo trucker.Interests: "The Absurdity of Man". I am a proud supporter of Blarney, Nonsense, and Hooey. I enjoy being a chopper jockey, and trying to figure the world, people and belief systems out. I'm just not very good at it, so it keeps me real busy. I scribble, blog, run this website, mess with rental houses, ride motorbikes, and read as much as I can. I went solo 44 years ago, and I like to say I'm gonna get me a real job one day. When I grow up. ("but not just yet, Lord, not just yet") For my aviation scribbles see www.chopperstories.com.... enjoy! I wish you Peace in your Life. May you always walk with the sun on your face, and a breeze ruffling your hair. And may you cherish a quiet wonder for our awesome Universe. Life isn't always good. But it is always fascinating. Never quit.
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Series This Belongs To
The lonely butterfly (part 2)
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The lonely butterfly (part 2)
The Lonely Butterfly (2)



He was gone.  My little friend was gone.
The lonely butterfly had disappeared into the dark gloom of a forgotten hallway..
I leaned back against the rusted, worn railings of my tired sanity.  
So what, I asked myself, had struck me so powerfully about what I had just witnessed?
What was the butterfly to me?
An image, a symbol, a prophesy, or a warning?

Was I that butterfly?
No.
What did it represent to me?  
The transience of life?
No....

My gaze swept over the broken, abandoned ugliness of the oil platform's machinery.  Where once money and production had been the all dominant factors, holding sway over all the sweating, tired, workers... all that was part of a bygone age now. In a mere twenty five years, and fifty million barrels, the well had been exhausted. And all that was then so vital, so pressured, so prioritized... all that was now silent. Broken. Corroded. Covered in seabird droppings.
Irrelevant...

And suddenly, I knew what the butterfly represented.
A warning.
That those creative urges in me,
that desperate longing to live on a higher spiritual and artistic plane,
that aching for a peace that transcends mere mortal words,
that nebulous vision of distant skies to be flown and explored,
that hurting need to give my writing full throttle....
and soar effortlessly above those distant, sun drenched tops...

are transient...

They must be expressed, and find fertile ground...
or be lost forever,
buried under the deluge of the daily grind,
smothered under the pillows of comfort
executed by the jeers of the shallow ones,
or postponed until the grapes wither, unborn, on the vine...

I shook my head, sadly.
The task seemed... too much. For one so awkward. So gauche. So limited...
The excuses rushed madly at me. It was only with difficulty that I side stepped away from the tired edge of resignation. The deck swayed for a moment, but I moved forward purposefully. Grimly. With determination.  Onwards...

And the butterfly...

flew up, high into the sky, the caressing rays of abundant light washing it lovingly, framing it, delicately, exquisitely, against the dark, storm tossed clouds...




Francis Meyrick
    (c)



Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 10, 2009, 9:17 pm
We little humans, hurtling through the Universe on our tiny, pale blue dot, will find few answers to Life's great mysteries. But we should at least find many of the questions. To write is to ask. To seek. To grope. With humility, and humor. Peace.
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