Though I love who I am and what I'm not, you may have noticed that the information I present to you concerning my more private life exasperatingly cryptic. A wise fool may conjecture this habit of mine "paranoid." For a few inexplicable reasons, the worthy fellow's surmise may prove to be undoubtedly correct.
When I entered kindergarten, or rather when kindergarten entered me, I was the unsocial fledgling, a universal found generally in all schools. While the greater population of 'late birds' indulged in painting the blacktop with remnants of yesterday night's precipitation, I preferred to discern skybirds in the distant horizon, or cajole a delphinium blue butterfly to tiptoe en pointe upon my bare hands. I knew I was unpopular, but the beauty I espied from my imagined promontory obscured such pensive thoughts.
Could I see through things? No; on the contrary, I perceived events just the way they were. Love fell through me like an effervescent creek, and joy brought her lips only upon my cheek. I was resilient because I was callous. And truthfully, I enjoyed this supreme power in which I manipulated.
Eventually, the tightly wound bulb unfurls, or the chrysalis collapses by the the wing beat of a shadowy insect. Does it? Can you learn to see outside the box?
Perhaps blogging has manifested some other secret within me or produced and concealed more. I have grown to be less precise in some fields, but even more when it comes to chasing the butterflies.
But you don't have to try hard to uncover these elusive creatures.
I may be Starr, the so-called "literary genius" who spends her time bloating that already filled head of her's. But who am I when the veil is lifted, when I strip to my naked soul?
Ask the butterflies; they might know.
