Thoughts are like thousands of paper butterflies flapping frantically around my head, constantly multiplying by hundreds, knocking on windowpanes, trying to fly outside to oblivion until I can stop and catch one just long enough to read all the text it contains, before all of a sudden it burns in my hands, leaving nothing but dust and ashen recollections.
Then I’ll write down whatever I can remember, in a haste, in a frenzy, like those annoying ‘you are the chosen one’ Noah-like kids in Knowing, as fast as I can.
Sometimes I get the words right, the points right, the ideas right, sometimes I get them half-right, sometimes I do a-okay, but sometimes, oh I get them so shit and just stare frustratedly at the ashes in my palms, screaming, “Rise! Rise, o paper butterfly! Reincarnate or something, dammit!” but alas, a paper butterfly is not a paper phoenix, and when paper butterflies burn, they disappear.
Then I can only hope there will come another bearing a similar story to tell, so I can share it with the world as it burns in the palms of my hand and my mind.