Butterflies don’t fly on the moon

Sometimes 
I wish 
I could be 
A butterfly 
Flying by 
Flying high 
Sometimes 
I have 
Visions of suicide 
Take me away 
Help me erase.
-Raury
What else is there to say of this world? It could be said that Italians do not eat peanut butter, that love is not what we think it is, that sex and music are humans’ two greatest languages, that blackberries have no qualms with blueberries, and spider wasps provide great metaphors. 
It could be said that magic is real, that a girl with loose auburn curls and the smile of a child could easily arouse it in your life, but that it takes considerable effort and intention to arouse it within yourself. 
It could be said that a cherry pie knows everyone’s deepest secrets and still has room left for filling, or that hamsters — given the right diet — could make an entire island invisible. 
It could be said that the Shaman is actually the second coming of Jesus. But it could also be said that he’s a lunatic with a weird grin and a past too sad for movies. 
It could be said that a caterpillar must become soup before transforming into a butterfly, that disrupting the process could ruin everything. 
It could be said that she is happy, and fulfilled, and that you have no idea what’s real anymore. 
It could be said that the wheel is finally grinding to a halt, and that something else is there winking at you.
It could be said that I am not a writer at all, but an animated clump of flesh that will one day make a great dinner for a family of worms. And that any attempt I make to articulate the seering mystery of things is about as useful as a carton of old milk. It’s not going to do you any good for me to tell you how to live your life. 
I was a child once. 
With dreams. 
Big nebulous dreams 
Some of them nightmares. And that child has grown into a tangled mess of paradoxes. She’s basically a box of Christmas lights wrapped in garden hoses. She’s basically the human version of an alien. Her curls have been known to pick up radio transmissions from space, and every one of them sounds like Don Knotts playing the washboard. 
Zero is more of a number then ten will ever be.
Twin flames are real but that doesn’t matter much at all.
Sometimes angels will tell you important things but you’re addicted to your cell phone so you’ll miss most of it. 
Sometimes you write in the second person when referring to yourself. 
Sometimes 
I wish
          I could be 
                            A
                                   Butterfly. 

Begin

Begin to make moves in the direction of a strong, well balanced, drama-free artistic, literary, and musical community flourishing by the sheer effort of its members. 

Begin to walk away from the energy suckers, the phonies, the manipulators, the emotionally reactive.

Begin to extricate energy from improper circumstances and relationships. 

Begin to limit endeavors. 

Begin to hone them down. 

Begin to focus clearly and consistently on positive feedback loops. 

Music.

Beats.

Lo-Fi sounds.

Soul felt lyrics. 

Novels. 

Poems.

Short stories. 

Make money simply for the sake of existing and supporting life.

Stop apologizing for being selfish with personal resources. 

Wake up. 

Break down old structures.

Build up new ones. 

Become.
Become. 
Become. 
And begin. 

Begin where the self already stands.