BUTTERFLY
So, inside the cage a child is born.
Outside, the whole creation is vibrant. The flowers are alive, the foliage is alive, the birds are alive, the animals are alive, the beetles are alive.
The butterflies are alive.
The colors are outside, the child is inside.
Inside there is a mimicry of colors. Sliced from life, inside, the colors are lifeless.
Dead.
Inside the walls, life hungers. Life hungers for life. “Just one touch, please! Just one caress, please!
Just one hug. Please!
Just one puppy, please mom… just one kitten!”
From inside the walls, the child runs towards doors, always.
Always barefoot, child of earth, always hungering for earth.
“No slippers, mom please!”
Inside the walls, the child hungers for life. Inside the walls, the child hungers for colors.
The butterflies are on the other side of the door.
The door is locked.
On this side of the door, there are crayons. On this side of the door, there are color pencils.
A 6-color pack, 12-color pack; 24 and 36-color packs.
Curled up on this side of the door, crying his heart out, on a sheet of paper, the child is coloring butterflies.
Dead.
On that side of the door, the butterflies are spreading their wings in the morning sun.
Velvet colors floating in air.
Inside the locked door the child is rewarded. He will have a glorious future one day. One day, humanity will have a Picasso, a Dali. One day, the humanity will see the peaks of its creativity.
It will be art, officially. It will be life, art-ificially.
When the human child draws the butterfly, humanity shifts the value from the real one to the drawn one. Shifts the value from the real to the image, the symbol.
The humanity guards the symbol, inside the walls; destroys the real, outside the walls.
The humanity robs life from the real, and breathes money into the image.
Violates the living, and impregnates the art with glory.
If you start drawing butterflies, you’ll make them extinct one day.
That day is today.
