Boxes and Butterflies

I catch my reflection in the inky black pool of my guitars surface: I look tired. I always look tired; I don’t think it’s a lack of sleep, more a tiredness of life and everything that surrounds me. Frustration is common for me these days, as the days blend into one and the frustrations I feel build with every passing moment.

Glancing round at the four walls that have become my prison, I am overwhelmed by the need for escape. The same posters as five years ago adorn the walls and the collection of toys on my shelf sit blanketed in dust that I no longer have the energy to sweep away. A box full of birthday cards, photographs and silly notes is open on the bed. Memories of better times and things lost in the misty grey of the past. I allow myself a smile as I look through the box, breathing in the scent of innocent dreams and long forgotten feelings; I wonder how many more things will find their way into this box and how long I will hang onto it.

Caught in a wave of nostalgia, both unexpected and bittersweet, I catch the tear before it falls, not wanting to bring sorrow into this box that contains all the happy memories I have ever had. Cinema tickets, a bracelet of star beads and a four leaf clover, pieces from a life tinged with sadness and the shadow of monster that refuses to die. I dig around in the bottom of the box, my fingers close around the tiny butterfly charm I thought I had lost. The light dances across its tiny surface as I hold it up. With a smile, I remember the day I got it, warm and hazy and filled with laughter. With a start I realize that this box is filled with not only memories but all the hopes and dreams I once carried.

The box is covered with pictures of butterflies and I suddenly see how often they appear in some form in my life. As a child I was always fascinated by the transformation butterflies underwent, from a tiny ugly caterpillar to a proud and beautiful butterfly. I catch sight of the delicately coloured glass butterflies hanging in my window, catching the light, the colours playing across my walls like miniature moving rainbows. I place the butterfly charm back in the box, laying it to rest with all the other memories, waiting to be rediscovered some other day.

The wave of sadness I’m suddenly engulfed with catches me off guard, I find myself at a loss as I try to rationalize it. With a sigh and a lump in my throat, I find the lid to my little box of memories and place it back under the bed in the space it belongs.

A butterfly on a string, dreaming of escape, that would be me.