Change wounds me constantly, and I am uncomfortable with pain. It is like the time I found a butterfly with a broken wing, and I placed it on some flowers in a vase. I thought it would drink the nectar from the flowers, but when I woke the next morning, I found it drowning in the water that filled the vase. I let it drown. It was a weak and frail animal, and my fingers are far too clumsy to care for something as fragile as life. I was reminded of the butterfly when my fish died. I poured its bowl into the toilet, but strangely the fish stuck to the bottom. I imagined it was a half-hearted attempt at survival so I took the stinking, sticky body into my hands and kissed it, imitating God and a fairytale simultaneously, hoping I could breath life into it and wake it from an enchanted slumber. I remember the deaths. Therefore, they have scarred me. For that is what memories are: scars, proof of a struggle. Change wounds me constantly, but I want to remain flawless and unscarred.
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