I always liked the idea of signs.
There was just something comforting in universal messages, a cosmic reminder that life is greater than the monotony of daily routines and occasional speed bumps that make us feel alive, a circadian rhythm operating like clockwork and flights to dreamland scheduled before 12AM with seldom delays.
These particular “signs” happened within the past year.
The first image was taken in a butterfly garden at the Fair. The text placement, depth of field and angles composed an eerily personal message addressed to myself, a simple note to keep on dreaming.
The second image was originally a .gif of a butterfly that landed on my hands a few times, and interestingly hovered around me in the same spot where Chibi passed. The only other time this phenomenon occurred was back in Japan, when a butterfly landed and attached itself onto my dad’s shoulder, a few days after my grandpa passed away. The crazy cool thing is that this particular species is called a Mourning Cloak, aptly named for its markings that resemble the traditional cloak that an individual wore when he/she was “in mourning.”
I was barely 20 when that awful afternoon set off a chain of events that continuously begged me to question the existence of a higher power, an interrogative (and extremely selfish) mental tug-o-war of “why me” and “life’s not fair.” Nine years later, I’ve acknowledged that I wouldn’t be in this position, if it wasn’t for the past (especially that day) and I’m surprisingly grateful for that.
Also super important: nobody owes you anything.
If there’s one sign I want to truly believe in, it’s that butterflies symbolize transformation, and these minor interactions represented the cumulative metamorphosis of my twenties, reminding me that the pain is gone, the scars have healed, and those relentless dreams have finally come to fruition. Hashtag blessed.