Mille neuf cents quatre-vingt-quatre

I finally get to talk to you, but it was merely for ten minutes.
Sometimes I feel so guilty for waking people up so early just so I can talk to them... It's so selfish of me. But I wake up at like 7 on weekends, so... I'm just weird.

Here's my butterflies essay, but it's pretty mediocre... I only like a few lines... And why is the font so ridiculous big and bizarre?? :( "Each one so fragile and prone to accidents, flying in a looking-glass world of disaster."

The end was inspired by something my friend said about Kurt's death being a brilliant end to his amazing persona... Lol. It's actually kinda appropriate though :)

A blur of dotted yellow wings in a field of hydrangeas. The most subtle flutter, so small, it makes one wonder if it had ever been there at all. Butterflies are a subject of wonder in the natural world. Such tiny, delicate creatures living in a perilous jungle filled with predators… A butterfly’s wings are transparent, covered with shimmering, iridescent scales. They belong to the Lepidoptera family, which means scale wing. Each shingle is filled with colour and ultraviolet patterns that cannot be seen by the human eye. The delicate scales can be held by a human being, but the more fragile darlings may die at the infinitesimal caress of a hand. Butterfly wings have 125,000 scales per square inch. Think about that in relation to humans, who have about 100 hairs per square inch on their head. Butterflies can carry 50 times their own body weight. Imagine a microscopic butterfly, flying along to the nearest flower with 50 other butterflies on its back. Each butterfly is born as an egg, then transforms to a larva, pupa, and finally, an adult. The metamorphosis process is arduous and painful as the butterfly forms its organs and body from a bound cocoon. When they first emerge from their chrysalis, their wings are more delicate than ever, and terribly wet and wrinkled. It must then hang upside down to pump blood into its wings to inflate them. The paper-thin wings must be completely dry before butterflies can fly. If the wings are torn, there is no repair. Free-falling from the heavens above, stumbling amidst the brilliant blue skies, and finally crashing to the ground with a halt.

Butterflies are all cold-blooded; they depend on the sun for warmth so they can fly. If their body temperature is less than 86 degrees, say farewell to flying… Death will be greeting them at the door. Imagine a cold winter night, when soft snow flurries gently fall to the ground. While children are rejoicing over the lack of school, think of the butterflies that may be freezing to death. A poor little thing, lying still on the side of a road, hidden by the frostbitten grass. Butterflies weigh as much as two rose petals, but inside their compact bodies is the ability to travel thousands of miles. Adult butterflies don’t eat; they only drink. Yet they are filled with energy to flutter their miniature statures around the world. Their life span is quite short, ranging from three days to forty days. The occasional butterfly can survive for ten months. Perhaps the next time you’re walking, there will be some butterflies that magically appear in your path: small brownish skipperlings, cobalt-blue gossamer-wings, glitter-dusted elfins, majestic monarchs, papilionidae swallowtails, buttercup-yellow sulphurs, magenta-covered checkerspots, metalmarks and tortoiseshells. Each one so fragile and prone to accidents, flying in a looking-glass world of disaster. All living beings are. We yearn to have wings to fly, like those precious butterflies.

We are so breakable, the casual events of everyday life shattering our weak and vulnerable wings. They have just begun to grow, one’s self-confidence and independence emerging from the cracks, when a sudden event can bring the world crashing down. Someone special leaving for two years, the words “Did you hear about her?” whispered softly as cruel rumours, a divorce, the slow but inevitable drift between friends… Kids often dream of flying when they’re young, and many still do. Dreaming of sprouting wings to fly out of this place, to soar far, far away, even if they don’t know where they’re going or what the future holds. From being in a cocoon to the final stages of metamorphosis, coming out of that shell is like saying “Hello” to growing up, leaving behind a world of innocence. “It’s better to burn out than fade away,” Kurt Cobain says. To die, to be humiliated, to be embarrassed, to feel the pains of growing up----- wouldn’t it be all worth it if only we could touch the skies above for just a nanosecond, and race towards the galaxies with exuberance and recklessness? As the feeble butterfly struggles to get up after its wings have been snapped in half, its death marks the final, brilliant stroke on a painting, a masterpiece. It, like we, have learned to fly, if only for a moment.

Winston and Julia. 1984.

"Nevertheless it had been very difficult not to betray a momentary surprise, for in the two or three seconds while he was helping her up the girl had slipped something into his hand. There was no question that she had done it intentionally. It was something small and flat. As he passed through the lavatory door he transferred it to his pocket and felt it with the tips of his fingers. It was a scrap of paper folded into a square... He readjusted his spectacles on his nose, sighed, and drew the next batch of work toward him, with the scrap of paper on top of it. He flattened it out. On it was written, in a large unformed handwriting:

I love you.

(95).