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Bob sends Alice Butterflies

Updated: Nov 23, 2020




As semesters come to an end, we are confronted yet again with what the future holds for us. Someplace to go, somewhere to be, or something to do. Only our wits to guide us. At the risk of sounding as unscientific as I can possibly sound, let us not forget that part of us is locked away from ourselves; in a prison of our making. Our brain has this sort of wiring which I believe keeps some elements latent. My only request would be for one to be appreciative of the same. This primal higher intelligence. The source of that idea which struck you when you just woke up, the inspiration that strikes when you are singing loudly (and quite shamelessly, if I might add) while bathing, or simply that stroke of genius. Our thoughts are like strokes of a paintbrush on the canvas of context, and maybe we do not realise this higher consciousness (pool of infinite inspiration?). Don't wait until science finds a better explanation for this. Exploit it. Let them become butterflies flying through both realms (the conscious and the sub-conscious) and enrich you. Keeping in mind the above idea, here is what I hope brings this idea to life:


I close my eyes and let the colours of my dreams weave me a million butterflies,

Traversing the still of a sky afloat as those organic origami paper kites,

Floating on ether, wafer light, wither when the sleeper wakes in the hope to reprise,

Their role revisiting the sleeping mind


The elaborate network of neural processing, the ghostly semblance of truth,

From the waking mind slumbering deep inside, move from that tested and proved,

To that unused sense of wonder which I stand under as I hopped onto a passing thought and flew

Flew between the dimensions of what I now know and what I once knew,

From the million things said yet unheard that I did over time accrue


My waking was overdue, my head heady from the transmissions of my heart,

I am still decoding this cypher and uploading it to the cloud for backup, the growing digital plant,

Of revised revisions, Pumping O2 pulses throbbing through wires that hire the open source code and what transpired in my opinion,

Is but a truth that while true, could not outlive my byproduct, the emission,

The single limited dimension that tore itself and flung into itself in rudimentary fission

I walk the road of the rats, the kings and the snakes till I reach the end and maroon to white light breaks,

Our shapes to nothing, rubble left of that holy ground where we once did wait,

In silent watch for someone to prove the existence of god, of man and woman and the great design, it faltered,

No one bothered, bothers, or will bother as the passenger pigeons leave with our good intentions lying wasted in the corridors,

Time is a flat circle and the empty remainder is where we may bury our fluttering butterflies


When I close my eyes, and my mind tries to stretch from,

The fabric to fabrication, between both ends of the spectrum,

It shall weave little butterflies relaying through the ossifying,

Mind where I shall find locked in a very non-suspicious looking file,

The colours stacked in grand design, unkept, uncompiled


Thank you


Aditya G.K.

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