Butterflies

There once was a boy who dreamed he was a butterfly. In the dark of many crisp fogless nights, he would pass through his window into the sharp open air--the moon greeted him and he answered with small gusts of twilight from beneath his wings. As he grew from a boy to a man, his ability to dream began to be hindered by life itself--he slept little, and when he did, it was frightful and shallow. One day, he happened upon a mountain path on one of his fortnightly walks around the neighborhood. Curious, he decided to wander up the path. As he took his first step, he noticed that the sun had already quite settled on the far horizon, slowly sinking into the crimson ocean, and the forest surrounding him grew dark. Oh how the wind howled! The moon grinned menacingly and glared at the man, as if whispering, you have forgotten me and you have come back. The man, blinded by the fierce light, sauntered forward, bumping into trees and eventually stumbling into a lush patch of tall grass. He was never found, for I am sure the forest consumed him that night, but around twilight, the trees will often whistle and sing his tale: he was lost not because he had grown, but because he had convinced himself he could never again be a butterfly.