The morning

The pretty butterflies sit on the armrest, and the backrest of the bench. They sit on me too. Enticed by the odour of the Salsa. more are coming. Landing delicately , their triangular wings a beautiful play of colors.

I love these mornings. Mornings here are just serene. Up ahead i have a nice view of the river. Small and large boats float by. Carrying the new arrivals. I really don’t feel that hungry, but i just can’t resist. I take one of the butterflies . dip it in the salsa bowl that forms the end of the armrest. This one is jalapeño flavored. Crunchy bliss.

I used to feel guilty about the butterflies, and the leaf insects that camouflage themselves as strips of sizzling bacon, over by the runny yoke fountain. But you need to remember that it’s not a bad thing. Not here. Just pace yourself. don’t overeat, don’t over drink. Find the middle road. Find the balance..

I hear slow sitar music, fits the scene perfectly. The player gives a bass note and goes wild on the upper clef. Running through an insane modus. The player might be getting ready for the afternoon festivities, or just doing his thing. I eat another butterfly and take in this moment. A bit below, by the riverbank, a guy is planting something. He digs a hole, puts the young sapling in. A bit of water. He steps back. The tree starts to grow. His newly forming branches sway to the rhythm of the sitar. Buds of rich leaves sprout and then it’s done. A new tree in the garden . i take another butterfly. This one is sourcream and chives.

Why can’t all the butterflies be sourcream and chives?

Why must this perfection be spoiled by ketchup -flavored, or teriyaki-flavoured butterflies? They don’t work with the salsa. But I mustn’t think like that. There must be some kind of pervert here who likes that. Must have had a sad background, to like that. Maybe i could form a support group for people who’s lives drove them to like ketchup-flavoured buttetflies.

But It all quickly melts away in the end. Doesn’t it?

We all come to love everything.

Even the ketchup-flavoured butterflies, even them, I’ll love some day. Even they, I’ll grow to love. Grow is the operative word here.

After all, I’ll be better off loving MORE than LESS , right?

I’ll have a preferance, for sure. But I’ll grow to love everything.

And then what? What will I become, when all the things that irritated, distressed, angered and depressed me just merge into new fields to love. Unploughed fields...Will I be able to love Britney Spears? Surly, it would take time for me to come to terms with the smokers. I can conceive of loving aniseed but could I possibly love drunk drivers?

A work in progress, i guess.

And when that time comes, and I forgive and love all those who did wrong, who betrayed their “better angles” , what will happen to me? How will I live with only love and joy? Will there be anything else? Something yet unknown to me? There is so much of this garden I haven’t seen yet.

Will i tour it as a super-content being?

Will I become a butterfly?

Will it be sour cream and chives?