Butterflies die if you clench them too tight. They’re fragile.
It’s the small things that kill you every day. And it doesn’t happen suddenly, it is an eventual process.
But I don’t think I realized before that my conversations with my father have become limited to a general yes/no dialogue about my studies and about how my writing is a “waste of time” although his words aren’t harsh, he isn’t unkind. I don’t know when he stopped asking my mother every day about how she’s doing, and I find it hard to imagine a time when they kissed each other goodbye. He goes to work, he comes home, he watches television while my mother tries to make conversation with the one person she feels would listen to her wholeheartedly. She gets frustrated because he finds it hard to mute the audio, and that frustration turns into unreasonable anger. My relationship with my mother is supposedly those perfect ones, yet I feel a lack of connectivity. She doesn’t know the real me. I hide behind many layers. My brother is older than me but his mind isn’t. I won’t term it addiction because then it will become true. Video games are so silly, how did they succeed in robbing me of my brother? The meaning of family is different for me, as I am sure is for everyone else, too. It’s the little things that take your life at the end of it all. Ignorance, wrath and envy form major parts of my everyday functioning. The ignorance of my parents, the wrath of my brother, and my loathsome envy of everyone else’s “happiness”.
I think I killed a butterfly once. I held it too firmly with my tiny fingers. Do you think it had already succumbed to the skies or was I too ignorant with her life like people are with mine?
Photography Credit: Annie Spratt