Chad Scholoft and the pink butterfly

It was an awfully small window in time their paths crossed, and yet they met, Chad and Maya, and for that she was glad, because he showed her the pink butterfly could fly.

It was rather trapped, the pink butterfly, and Maya watched it every single day, helpless. She was often like that, helpless, and staring, often wishing the could help but she often froze indecisive of how, or what to do, or maybe it was the fear of what could happen if she helped that froze her. So she sat and stared at the fluttering pink thing inside the glass box.

She pondered her life, often feeling much like the pink butterfly. Fluttering around, frustrated, seeing the world beyond the glass box, and yet resolved to flutter around its four corners. Dejected the butterfly would rest, in the corner on the top right of the box, because there was where it felt the least trapped. No matter how hard it fluttered its wings, it hit the glass ceiling of the box, much like her, dear Maya.

When Chad walked in and saw the pink fluttering wings he felt it. The hero in him jumped at the knowledge that he needed to reach out to smash the glass box, so he wrapped his fists tightly around the handle of the umbrella he was carrying. Funny he had that, for he hardly carried an umbrella, or anything that would burden him, or stop him from moving quickly. He slowly approached the glass box and watched the pink butterfly flutter. 

Smash the glass will you? She pleaded. He looked up and his eyes met hers, he recognised that anxiety, that urgency in her voice. Wait, he whispered, she has to be ready to take flight. Maya was starting to get impatient. The pink butterfly was idle today, and it fluttered and flew, and rested at the top right hand corner of the glass box. He released the grip on the umbrella a little bit and shook his head, maybe tomorrow. She shrugged.

They walked off into the sunset in opposite directions him patient, and her, angry that he had not rescued the pink fluttering insect. She of course could not do it herself. She did not know how, just like how she flew around in her head daily revisiting her dreams, in the four corners of her mind, reluctant to let herself do them. She had been idle for years now, fluttering each day, before resting at the top right hand corner of her own little glass box. Waiting.

Day after Chad met Maya at the glass box, and waited, patiently. He was familiar with this, he knew if he smashed the box out of time, the butterfly would never have taken flight. So he hoped and urged daily for the little pink thing to gather enough ferocity, enough courage, enough energy. And day after day Maya just hoped and wished Chad would smash the glass box.

Chad often wondered why Maya did not smash the box, she needed to, for the pink butterfly was hers to free. He would accompany her anyhow, for it was he, and only he that could show her how. Everyone else was accustomed to being stuck in the box, he was the only one in her life that helped her remember there were things other than the glass box. He knew that. So he met her daily at the glass box, and reminded her, not of the possibilities she knew, but of how, he could live beyond the box.

He sat, wistful looking at the sun, and opened the window wide enough for the sun to enter in. Just a few months ago he was trapped, he thought. But one day he thought he wanted different, and he climbed through the window and never looked back. He hoped that Maya would like him, climb through that window one day. She was trapped much. She should jump, just like he did. 

Maya often felt like a bird in the cage resolving to believe what she was told, that she has to make the best of the cage and be grateful for being fed. And he, there was a point in time where he would have broken down, shattered to tiny little shards, yet he’d find himself reassembling the pieces and move on, as if nothing had happened. 

It was one day he was resolute, and he somehow cajoled enough will in his body to listen to that innate call. With the energy and one moment of passion he saw through the window at the lies he has been told about life. About how he should continue seeking to please others. And in that one moment of anger he jumped with all his might and shattered the glass box, to pieces. 

The pink butterfly was restless that night. Something stirred and it all of a sudden knew, it rested on the top corner of the glass box to muster enough strength for tomorrow. For tomorrow will be different.

Chad set out as usual, in his straw hat and bermuda shorts towards the glass box. The weather was stormy, and he had to make many-a-stops and by the time he got there it was way past sunset. He slipped down the road into the the little alley and down the hill behind the coconut trees towards the sandy beach, it was almost sunset and he could see her shadow. He approached quietly and watched as Maya swiftly swung the umbrella into the glass box. He stopped and watched as she whispered to the fluttering pink butterfly that it was free to fly.

Maya had decided on different. She had put on her yellow dress, and her green flip flops. Something in her was resolute. She had walked towards the door, but instead of turning its knob she turned to climb out the window. And now, in that calm sunset, after the thunderstorm Maya, with umbrella in her hand smiled, and beside her fluttered the pink butterfly. 

Little did she know, it was smiling, and so was Chad. 

And they walked off into the sunset, in opposite directions, but he knew they will meet again, outside this glass box because that day, she jumped, with all her might.

(this entry is dedicated to Ali Imran K and the words in italics are his. thanks for reminding me Ali :) )

Tripping in Amsterdam

Can paper cranes fly to carry you and I up towards the blue blue sky, will we see the fairies skip as you take cherries for a sweet trip to amsterdam and back. Except you never came back and tears don't stream down my face no more, never did, not since the day you left, and I am left behind with paper cranes in a bottle, and no they do not fly. Paper cranes do not fly, and she knew that long before she started folding them.

Maya never stopped folding them paper cranes though, no matter how the truth resonates within her soul, now hollow enough to sound like a drum when that reality hits it. The drumbeats never annoy her though, she just dances to it. It is amazing really that a girl with a hollow soul still dances. But I guess she never stopped dancing, and that is the thing, she never did stop, even after he died, half past nine, in the middle of her folding the 99th crane in high hopes that, despite the truth, it may bring them some salvation. She never stopped dancing to the beat of reality.

Funny that, because if I were her, I would have stopped dancing, but she even took a trip to amsterdam, flew halfway around the world to california, and then back down to where cherry trees blossom in October, and bear fruit in December just so she can get high on cherries, just like how they both used to do. I guess maybe because it meant more to Maya to keep on going, keep on dancing no matter how monotonous the bass of reality is. But think about it, all pop songs have the same beat. So does life, and as Maya says, so does death.

His family held a grudge against her for packing up and leaving, with the cranes, the day he died. She never came to his funeral you know. Never visited, not even once. She just packed her bags and left. And they thought she bore a heart of stone, because she never cried a tear. Not a single one. Not when they all found out he was destined for death, not even when he died. Not a single tear that girl cried. Heart of stone.

Trains to Maya are a common thing now. She gets on and off them and on them again, sits in the same stance, at the same seat, staring out the window, cigarette in her right hand  and playing with the ends of her long black curly hair with her left index finger. No one ever sits next to her, unless of course if the train is full, but she often chose routes that are uncommon, or travelled at ungodly hours that it was hardly such. 

Most of the time people left her well alone. I guess it was her face, she often looked far away, and not to be disturbed. As if she were withdrawn to the very back of her mind, contented, and something in her eyes seem to plead strangers never to draw her into this world. It is true, she was often withdrawn, in the place where they were still them, and they were still singing songs of joy together. For her memories were sweeter than her present, and to draw her back to this reality, might change the beat of the drums she was contented bobbing her head to.

And then the window opened. Just one day, and a crane flew out of the bag out of the train, into the sun and her eyes caught a glimpse of the bird, the paper bird that flew. And in that one moment, it was as if the drummer called reality paused, and skipped a beat, and it all went silent. And in those silent moments, she picked up her bag and walked out of the train, up the hill, and down the valley in those brown leather boots and she crossed the bridge and walked on until she saw the green meadows and the grey, grey headstones.

She stopped right at the stone that bore his name. Took out the bottle of paper cranes and threw them hard, breaking the glass bottle and chipping the corner of the grey headstone before the wind blew hard and lifted them cranes off the ground. And as the 99 and a half cranes took flight her heart broke and tears streamed down her fair face, her heart broke a million pieces and she felt it, she felt a pain so deep, she never knew how it was possible she could still stand. And I thought she had a heart of stone. 

It was in that instant when the sun shone into that dark dark heart and colour came back to fill the grey scenes before her eyes, and the silence was broken, but not by the drone drumbeats that accompanied her dancing through amsterdam. She heard music, it was in that instant her ears heard music again.

Fishermen and kings

The little boy was full of charm. His father was sure he would be the man he had never let himself be. Deep down within himself is the repressed charm he once had as a little boy and now he was just a handsome frame and a tower of strength, responsibility and a living body of met expectations. His father's expectations, his mother's, society's, now his wife's. His life was an ad really, picture perfect with exaggerated good bits. He has the dream car, the dream house, the top job.

All except for the dream girl, whom he thought he would never stumble upon again. Until his heart skipped a beat. Six o'clock sunday, that was when he saw her again, and that was when his heart skipped a beat.

He told her story. She never really ever told me about her pain but I knew, he begun. I could tell, he said, it emanated like body odour from her and her eyes, were the saddest set I have ever seen. But I, I was drawn to her, he said.

Over coffee, he and I talked of castles in the air and wooden clogs, and his eyes glazed a little as he told his story, her story. It began when the knight in him wanted to rescue the damsel in distress.

She would tie her hair up in a pony bob, he smiled as he told me. Her hair was too short for a ponytail. But I was naturally drawn to her, not because she was particularly warm. On the contrary, she had a rather hollow, superficial facade and a cold brash demeanor often setting a distance between herself and another with a wall filled with quick wit, humour and sarcasm. But I was not convinced and feel an intense adventure each time I spoke to her to find her heart, her soul.

She was an adventure and her heart I wanted to conquer.

When I saw her, said he, I thought she was the girl. The dream girl I wish and would wait to marry, and have a picture perfect life with. But she was quite the mean girl. I would have been at her beck and all, for I was that much in love and each time I see her pony bob and her delicate face my heart would ache to do all I could to be close to her and to make her smile. She never smiled easy. And her words like a knife would pierce through make me quite the small man. And he waned a little.

As the word small man escaped his lips I have to say I disagree. To me, he was quite the outstanding man. Visionary and bold, dynamic and quite the leader. And when they were together it was great to see, it was much like a knight and his beautiful lady.

Yet, she was quite an adventure. The adventure. But some dreams were only dreams. Or so it would seem to him when he was a young man, and his heart grew weary awaiting, for more than her, the picture perfect life was what he thought he was after. And a picture perfect life was what he left her to go after.

My heart sank much, I must say, for the romantic in me thought they would be. The sparkle in her eye, and the pony bob, was all a knight needs, but at one point he chose the easy way out, he chose the path arranged, the path expected and not the path that could be.

His lady at home, she was gracious and warm, ready to stoke his fiery ego, ready to have his children. And he chose the picture perfect path. And it was picture perfect, but his heart stopped beating a little. Because as beautiful the wife at home could be, he turned to me with wistful eyes and told me, he misses that pony bob and sparkle, the pony bob and the sparkle that made his heart skip its beat.

I guess, he could not spend his whole life in an intense adventure of searching for her heart, her soul, for that would be a sacrifice of the picture perfect life. Only because he felt he could not save her and that was because he never saw the tears he brought to her eyes that night he left.

It was his son, that stumbled upon her feet at the cobbled walkway along the street. She laughed as she picked him up and placed him on his feet again and as she looked up, pony bob and sparkle in her eye. He approached and picked up the boy and as he caught her eye, his heart skipped a beat. And they engaged in a conversation that made him wanting for more and they engaged in many more conversations that stoked the knight in him that was ready to fight, to rescue.

And so he invited me in and we picked up the conversation, from when I was the lady, and he was my knight. From the heartaches he caused and never knew about, and the bruised ego he nursed, and had moved happily along from. And here I am, sipping my coffee, in my pony bob and wooden clogs.

Fishermen and kings, I told him that day, I often saw in my dream. Pirates and thieves they often steal my ship. But I, I walk on with my wooden clogs, walk on. And it was that night, I poured out my heart, and he saw me cry.

And in that moment, he deeply desired to embrace me, his dream girl with the pony bob, and sweep me off my feet into his life, but it was only too late. He realised his dream girl had a soul, only it was way too late.

And I smiled as he picked up his little growing boy instead, who asked him innocently daddy what could I be? and he replied, be all you really want to be, but whatever will be, he looked at me with his wistful eyes, marry the girl of your dreams.

I turned to walk out and I cried a little, because it was too late, but I gotta put on my wooden clogs and walk on, I should have poured my soul when he was still waiting, and told him he did rescue me that dark night. I should have poured out my heart to him, and come out of my black cocoon. I did, only it was way too late, and my knight already had a lady, and I had become the lady the knight bypassed, but I know, some day my prince will come.