This Is How It Feels

Where the sky meets the earth, where the ceiling of the dead meets the ground of the living, where the horizon is something to chase, but not be caught, that’s the place I exist. Except it’s not a place to exist, not really. It’s a holding place, and the question I have is, how much longer do I have to be held? And how am I supposed to get out? And what is the purpose of getting out if nothing has changed? Or has it? And I start thinking too many thoughts and I can’t keep them together because once they leave me, they are torn into tiny pieces and the pieces come back inside, but I don’t want the pieces, so they go outside too. And then my pieces of thoughts begin to swirl around me, encasing me in a chrysalis, but as the thoughts touch my skin again, my entire soul burns. Like tentacles, they calculatingly wrap around my throat and tighten into a knot around my trachea. A noose. Pulling tighter and tighter as the burning sensation worsens. A positive feedback loop. More tension. More burning. More pain. More tension, more burning… 

I am screaming. A razor-edged, blood-curdling scream that cuts through space and fills every void. The scream reverberates against invisible walls, echoing in an ear-splitting crescendo. Make it stop. Let it be over. Get me out of here. I’m suffocating. I know that now. My brain smashes against the inside of my skull and I feel the shaking in my whole body. The chrysalis shatters into tiny geometric shards of glass that cut across my skin and leave careful trails of crimson before pulverizing into puffs of dust. I collapse to the ground. 

My whole body hurts, but the sharp pain soon resolves to a dull ache as my lungs remember how to work. Feeling returns to my extremities as oxygen enriches my blood and the tingling sensation is replaced by a different feeling: a soft, tickling somewhere around my left knee. With great effort, I push my upper body off the ground and shift my gaze downward to my leg. A butterfly. Its proboscis unfurls as it calmly laps at my blood. One wing is torn, and around the jagged tear, most of the scales have been rubbed away. I know that butterflies can still fly without the miniscule scales, but now when air moves across the thin wing, the upward force that creates lift will not be as great. This butterfly will be a clumsy flier. Easy prey.

I slowly reach toward the butterfly and allow it to crawl onto my finger. The instant it touches my skin, its torn wing falls off. I gasp and watch in horror as an invisible force rips a tear through its other wing. It’s as if my hands are pure destruction. The butterfly falls to the ground and feebly flaps its remaining wing, twisting around, desperate to be airborne. I imagine the remaining scales, scattering off the surface of the wing and bouncing amongst air molecules toward oblivion. A single tear runs down my cheek and I hurriedly wipe it away. I used to think that the greatness of life was most easily observed in moments like this. Like this tattered, one-winged butterfly struggling to move in the right direction. Perseverance. Strength. Courage. Now I’m not so sure. This butterfly isn’t struggling to move in the right direction. It’s struggling to move at all. 

I stand up, wincing slightly, and look down at the flapping tragedy on the ground. Help me. Save me. Take away the pain. 

“I know,” I whisper. And without hesitation, I crush the butterfly with the sole of my bare foot. The flapping ceases. I let out a long breath. The tears are streaming now, but I hardly realize. Right now, I can’t feel anything. Just like that stupid butterfly.