Mumbles Of Meaning

We have decided

the butterfly means something.

Of course we have.

Give a human being

anything that exists

without requiring our permission

and within minutes

we will put a metaphor on it.

The butterfly must mean transformation.

The bee must mean perseverance.

The lotus must mean purity.

The crow must mean death.

A crow! 

It was just looking for breakfast.

We decided it must be an omen.

This is what we do.

We cannot leave anything

alone long enough

to remain itself.

A flower cannot simply be a flower.

It must represent innocence

before we pluck it,

put it in a vase, watch it die,

and call the arrangement beautiful.

A tree cannot simply grow.

It must represent resilience.

Especially if it is growing

through concrete,

because apparently

photosynthesis becomes inspirational

the moment civilisation tries to kill it.

We adore resilience.

It makes oppression look like character development.

The butterfly is particularly useful.

It crawls into a disgusting little sack

of its own dissolved organs

and emerges with wings,

so naturally we decided 

suffering is the admission fee for becoming beautiful.

The butterfly has no idea.

It is busy looking for nectar.

It has never heard of your healing journey.

It did not emerge from the cocoon

to become the person you were always meant to be.

It emerged because that is what butterflies do.

Honestly, the arrogance! 

Imagine being a butterfly and discovering 

that some bald ape has written twelve thousand words

about what your metamorphosis taught him about himself.

You were eating.

He was having a breakthrough.

The bee is worse.

We have made tattle tales out of it.

Hardworking.

Disciplined.

Selfless.

Productive.

In short, everything your parents wanted you to be and your paychecks needed you to be.

The bee has no fucking idea

it is the poster child

for adulting and corporate resilience.

It is simply collecting pollen.

It will die doing it.

We call that dedication.

If a human does the same thing

we call it burnout

and sell him a wellness retreat.

The flower doesn't care either.

It doesn't care that poets

have compared it to women.

It doesn't care that painters

spent centuries trying

to get its colour right. 

It doesn't care that somebody

once received a bouquet

and finally understood

what love was.

The flower was trying to reproduce.

You were trying to get laid.

Only one of you needed the metaphor.

Then there is the sunset.

Holy shit!

We have done terrible things to the sunset.

We have made it hope.

Closure.

New beginnings.

Goodbyes.

Second chances.

A reminder that even endings can be beautiful.

The sun, meanwhile,

is undergoing a nuclear reaction.

It is not saying goodbye.

It is not forgiving you.

It is not closing a chapter.

It is burning.

It has been burning for billions of years.

Without a single fucking opinion about your breakup.

And yet,

we stand beneath it

with tears in our eyes

and have the ravishing audacity to say,

"Maybe everything happens for a reason."

No.

Maybe the sun is just a ball of violently collapsing plasma.

Maybe the bird is just hungry.

Maybe the tree is just ageing.

Maybe the river is just going downhill.

Maybe the butterfly is just trying to find a flower.

Maybe the flower is just trying to fuck.

Maybe the bee is just trying not to die.

Maybe none of them are trying to tell you anything.

Maybe they don't even know you exist.

And that should be the most liberating thing we have ever heard.

But we can't have that.

Because 

if the butterfly doesn't mean transformation,

then what does your transformation mean?

If the river

isn't teaching you to let go,

then who exactly

is going to validate your letting go?

If the dead bird isn't a sign,

perhaps death doesn't need to teach you anything.

And if the sunset isn't beautiful

because it reminds you of something,

then perhaps beauty was never the point.

Perhaps the universe has never been speaking to us.

Perhaps it has been doing something far more insulting.

It has been existing.

Without symbolism.

Without sentiment.

Without a fucking audience.

And we,

unable to bear the possibility

that something can exist without needing us,

have spent thousands of years

turning everything around us into a mirror.

Then we looked into the mirror,

saw ourselves,

and called it God.