But then reality shook up the writer of this story,
like a sharp, thin and strong current of cool air.
He started to think about how the reader would
see the story. And frightened by the thought:
"If I had known that this story could be read as a
real one, I would have written it differently", he stopped.
There might be another end, a happy one, if the reader
wants it, but at the moment this is the end he intended
me to let you know. It gives light to the dark
side of reality. He hopes not to waist your time.
But enough of talking, here it is... the end.
He stopped and returned home, next day would be
another usual working day. Suddenly, when he passed
the last corner, before the last garden before
reaching home, he found her. Dead on the floor
with the wings dissolved... He looked steadily
and tried to put them together again, but
without success. How could his love die like that?
The colours of her wings were no longer those of
life, but colours of death and sorrow. He wasn’t able
to find her on time and save her from that miserable
misfortune. He should have had time to nurture their
love. Finally, he took his sword of the modern times
(the invisible one) and swore to save the dignity
of his dead love and fight those that kept him away
from her. Nevertheless, he was certain that his search for
justice had been accomplished.
He knew that if he would ever see her again the
butterfly no longer existed.
Love is like that, a vulnerable butterfly that entangles two people
together, if the beholders recognise it in each others' eyes.
If he is not recognised or nurtured he flies,
and by metamorphosis acquires the shape of another
person. He will transform himself just like in the Chinese text!...
A feeling that no text can completely portray.
And the writer wishes me to add: "life itself
can be a butterfly, a dream that when you
run after it, evil people want to destroy it... so
prepare yourself for a stormy ocean when you start
your journey to the island of dreams."