Dusk of a Resurgent Daybreak

A young painter turns into a butterfly. Through much frustration, he accepts it and is liberated as a result

"Dusk of a Resurgent Day Break"


The gigantic speck of the annoyance fog covered my mind like a blanket of restraint jackets.
I couldn't think, simply, coherently, to save my life even. That's the unsatisfying aspect of living in this moment, you truly are unaware of anything else happily. I generally rise each morning, levitate from my minuscule makeshift mattress of wool blankets and my olive overcoat, surrounded by my attic, unfurnished, yet quaint and lovely loft, over viewing the lovely stead of Venice, Italy. It's a fine residence, one I've lived for quite sometime, and it's been a rewarding feat I might add. I'm only here practically a few hours, maybe less all depending if my insomnia ever decides on a nightly vacation, continents over from my awakened spirit. I'm generally out and about, living in this adorable and colorful city. I get to experience the scenery of this gorgeous present from a mystical palette and canvas, encompassing all ever growing potential passion one can imagine. The morning was quite pleasant, I intently stared into the sun, allowing the beams to overcome my senses, radiating the whole golden star throughout my body, energizing the self. This awe awakening aspect allowed me to enter the whole outside landscape. I exited my attic living quarters, ascending the creaking and ragged step ladder, across decaying browned and rust color coral floorboards, reminiscent of the gondola my lover and I swayed across the Canal on that autumn waterfall of warm and pleasuring adorable sunsets. Her smile exuberant and astonishing like the rainbow buildings around and the pastel horizon up above our heads. That evening established a fanciful everlasting friendship, and one that remains today, despite being separated for centuries now. That was when I was an artist, a charming handsome man, with beautiful smiles and a bohemian spirit. Even more, human like I suppose one could proclaim. A year goes by, and a tear sheds from myself, dangling from my face like water off a petal of succulent bonsai. How I miss the days where my limbs could wipe away those warm sobs. I flew by the downstairs living space of the lofts owner, fortunately unnoticed without any swatting of constant distress I often face from these treacherous creatures. I glide between the slightly open window pane, and am off on a lovely adventure, soaring high above this miraculous city wanderlust. My fore, a radiating crystal, aquamarine powdery blue contrasted perfectly with the multiplicities of grey my hinds displayed. "I'm truly a beautiful butterfly oh aren't I!" I thought happily to myself. I am without form, without limit. Beyond space, beyond time. I am in everything. Everything is me. I am the bliss of the universe. Everything I am. That's what I truly love about possessing the way of a butterfly, I'm truly free of the world, and the universe is mine. I love this love truly, because it's an extension of myself forever and ever. Even in the darkest of times, love always lit the way. As my flight over the canals and mystique of an ancient Venice continued, I felt a sobbing percolate inside myself. "Why do emotions always arise once I ponder on a lost love?" I sigh fully rehearsed in my cute little butterfly head. For one, maybe that could be a start of the problem, I'm still a damn butterfly. Why can't I return to being a young painter, oh how those days were truly wonderful! Such great experiences, barely surviving off the sparse bursts of executed creativity that bought myself a meal. However penniless I became, I remained content and happy with everything life dealt. I don't know why I've survived this long, but frankly I'm satisfied with the journey. With every minuscule road block, or in my case, some, I don't know, air obstacle, I've survived them all. That leads me to question, when will this misery end? Why am I seriously contemplating killing myself right? There's an array of objects I could smash myself into! Oh, how about breaking my wings somehow, yes that would be delightful. Maybe splashing my blue butterfly frame straight into that marvelous canal beneath my aerial vessel. Hopefully an imaginary alligator can feast in my wings! Hahaha, wouldn't that be a charming ending to yet another miserable day just beginning. Oh the misery, for no one realizes the tribulations of being a poor little butterfly. If only there was some other way, I could go on once again, find my lost love and we'd spend eternities as humans together forever.

The day went on and I flew around the dusk tinged state of Venice. This is the greatest part of the day for a butterfly like myself. The gorgeous sky resembled a Cortiello paint palette, orange and purple blankets caressing the delicate scenic landscape in the heart of Venice. Oh, how splendid it is to soar at ease amidst the beautiful landscape, even more marvelous it be if I could paint it! Sadly, my little old butterfly anatomical structure lacks the capability to firmly grasp the brush, oh the pain, I thought to myself in a satirically heartfelt voice, however genuinely saddened in actuality I am. Even in a not so human form, I'm still a sarcastic self loathing piece of s**t. Wouldn't want it any other way either, it completes the charming and all so delightful package. The bow on your beautiful Christmas unicorn your finally receiving! Oh, how beautiful that unicorn is, with or without bow. How I remember my wonderful Christmas of today, despite this being my first seasonal celebration in my newest form, I can't avoid the warm feeling within my heart. Still as a butterfly, I actually find it easily accessible to reconnect with love and spread it out to the universe. Fortunately, that is something, regardless of what our physical appearances resemble, in which we can all do. From our earliest stages as a blossoming sunflower, a delicately conceived fetus, or a cocooning caterpillar, love is always there. We just have to be accepting and open ourselves up towards. You know, viewing the world from a perspective in the skies like I have for awhile now, you can help but resort to thriving within a much more optimistic view of humanity. Oh how beautiful all the adorable smiling faces shine from this heavenly view! Just as I was enjoying my flight in view of the lovely scenery, something down below struck a chord so intriguing within me I just had to investigate. As I swooped down towards it, the silhouette of a painter honing his craft on easel appeared so wonderful to my eyes. Even more miraculous the gorgeous lady modeling for him. The scene was absolutely breath taking, even for a butterfly like myself. She was gazing right through the artist, Venice, the entire world, everything effortlessly all surrendered to her beautiful turquoise teal eyes. They sang of love in the most wondrous key ever to grace the ears of the beloved, and the prettiest of silences echoed through her harmonious gaze with all the unconditional love ever harnessed in a beating heart. In all my ages and brush strokes with love, this was certainly the mightiest, most poignant and delightful finishing product on the most fragile canvas of all, my blue heart aching for her. It was as if the more I sat perched in sight of her, the many millions of monochromatic tones of that blue color filled sight. Everything around me, the skies, the passing gondolas, the beautiful aged architect, the paint colors, the canvas and the beautiful girl of turquoise teal eyes. She especially shone the brightest star in the world, more beautiful than anything ever gifted to us all. The feeling however, despite the radiant blue tones of her figure concluded to myself this realization: sometimes our relationships can't always all be beautiful or our love ever mutual. As this fully set in, the many millions of blue casts soon resided, turning backwards to their natural occurring tone. With that occurrence, everything else seemed rather opposite, yet all too familiar. I felt totally light, free of any burden and preconceived notion that I was trapped in this state of being. As a matter of fact, I embraced it fully. With my tiny delicate blue butterfly wings, I flew away into the adoring dusk sunset.

Reviews

[Donald Miller]

Would you like some feedback, or did you write this for fun? I don't want to say anything that would diminish the fun of writing.
One thing I will point out is that trying too hard can work against a piece of literature. You're trying too hard, and it's hurting your story.

[Chris Folio]

Thank you for the honesty, can you give some examples where you thought I'm trying to hard?

[Donald Miller]

Throughout the entire story. For instance, the last phrase, "I flew away into the adoring dusk sunset."
I flew toward the sunset.

[Donald Miller]

You have a good idea for a story, but you use far too many adjectives. "The gigantic speck . . ." To me, gigantic and speck just aren't compatible.
I'm just as picky with my own writing, so don't feel bad. I do a lot of rewriting. I even do it when I'm leaving a comment in the Comment Section on YouTube. I consider it a good habit.
I'll help out, if you'd like.

[Chris Folio]

Yeah I totally understand and respect where your coming from. It actually means a lot your giving honest and constructive advice too. I definitely need to work on rewriting, I didn't with this story at all and I can really tell after re reading. Thanks again for your comments and I hope to hear from you in the future! Oh, and best of luck on your book too!

[Donald Miller]

I think what you have here, Chris, is a poem that wants to be a short story.
In my opinion, it would be a good project for you to think about the writers you like most and learn from what they do. You should definitely continue to work on the craft of writing. Somewhere along your journey, you got the idea that it's a good thing to use a lot of descriptive words. Myself, I don't think that's a good strategy. What I suggest doing -- and what I am also trying to learn -- is to use words effectively.
One of my favorite writers is Truman Capote. He said he enjoyed "the music the words make." That's a good simple phrase that uses a nice metaphor, music, to make his point. You've got an excellent vocabulary, but the trick is to know when, and when not, to use words that are complex because the simpler ones don't convey what you want to say.
I recommend Stephen King's book _On Writing_ .
My favorite writers, the ones I admire most, are Joseph Conrad, Mary Ann Evans, Leo Tolstoy, Hemingway, and Edith Wharton.
Stephen King has a good style. Michael Connelly is a very good present day writer. Cormac McCarthy is interesting, but his subject matter is rather bleak. "No Country for Old Men" really knocked my socks off, though. Great and unique book.

[Chris Folio]

Thank you, I actually started writing poetry awhile ago and it's now a somewhat regular thing for me. It's nice just to get my thoughts out with a lot of description that makes sense to me. I have a couple Hemingway books and have "On Writing" too, I just need to finish them here soon. I'm really inspired by a lot of spiritual writers, Alan Watts, Ram Dass, Yogananda, Lao Tzu, there all wonderful teachers for me who really guide me in writing and spirituality. I've always loved Hunter S Thompson too, he's really helped me in a way of implementing my own voice into my writing.

Right now I've been working on a pretty wonderful project. It's a collection of journal entries I've written over the past few months and I hope in turning it into a book called "Every Storm Leads to a Rainbow." I'm in a writers club at my school and always share it willingly with the few in there and some close friends as well. If your into that sort of thing, I'd love to show you some.

[Donald Miller]

Sure. Sounds good.