Psychic Intrigue

There is a certain allure to a butterfly you just can't catch. Try as you may, hunt as you will...it simply eludes capture. Yet you live your days fantasizing about the capture, and you spend your nights dreaming about that final moment of entrapment. A mindless fever has me in its iron grip. There is...so much that I know I have to accomplish. There is so much more I have yet to do. But all I can do is lose myself in the intrigue of that one butterfly chase. I held it briefly in my hand, before it slipped through my fingers and fluttered away, as all butterflies are wont to do. Seeking out greener pastures, where flowers wave merrily in the breeze, where they can alight and draw greedily from the wells of the Gods, the sweet ambrosia we call nectar. Suddenly, irrationally, I have an urge to label them parasites. Speak not to me of pollination; I know the purpose of these gaudy-winged creatures. Yet...I wonder. Why? Why do we chase what we know can never be ours? Dreams, hopes, aspirations, desires. All these things that weaken us when we fail to achieve the standards we set for ourselves. Most people would read my words, and immediately assume that I'm being pessimistic. I'm not, really. I'm just wondering...in a quiet sort of way...why do we keep chasing our butterflies through flower-filled meadows? What do we do, if we finally catch them? I read a rather intriguing book earlier in the day. Friedrich Nietzsche. A fascinating man, of that I have no doubt. Did he succeed in catching his butterfly? I wonder. A brilliant mind. Felled by his own sword. I have often wondered, if it is the curse of the intellectually-gifted to suffer from madness. I fear that word, more than all the demons in the world. Madness. It is tragic, that insanity seems to stalk genius. It is frightening, to think that our capacity for greatness is counterbalanced by the possibility of lunacy. I still seek out sources of knowledge, words by men of such calibre that inspiration and infinite wisdom are deeply embedded within their published works. If only to reassure myself that there are, supposedly, men of great intellect who have done battle with their inner demons and emerged mentally sound and relatively unscathed by their own minds. Are there such men? I don't know. And that frightens me almost as much as the very thought of insanity. I fear insanity, more than I fear anything else. That is my greatest fear. I spoke briefly to him today, and before he could formulate a reply, I excused myself from the conversation and left. It is the first time that I have turned my back on the most precious butterfly of all in my flower-filled meadow. In my mind's eye, it has crimson wings, studded with fiery rubies, and today marks the first time I put my butterfly-net down and watch one of my own butterflies flutter away. Parasite, my mind whispers yet again as I watch it fly further and further away. The fear I have for my sanity is very real, and I know few can understand this phobia that I have. If so, then I can only say that my illusions have served me well. *stretches* The night is young, but I need my rest for my appointment tomorrow. Perhaps it is only fitting that I expose my secret fears of mental weakness on the eve of my appointment with a state-appointed psychologist. Tell me, do I conceal my innermost fears and feelings? Or do I share it all with a man who will study me coldly and use me to further his understanding of the human psyche? After all, perhaps he is only pursuing his own butterfly. Let him, then. It is a futile effort, and he, as a learned man, should know that some knowledges are beyond the reach of men. *bitter* Certain butterflies you just can't catch, no matter how hard you try.
Called a star's orbit to pursue,
What is the darkness, star, to you?
Roll on in bliss, traverse this age-
Its misery far from you and strange.
Let farthest world your light secure.
Pity is sin you must abjure.
But one command is yours: be pure!
-Fredrich Nietzsche.