You can always count on butterflies to deliver your map.
I flitted this phrase around in my mind on a well-worn path yet still arrived at no satisfactory destination.
The markings on my arm demanded my attention daily and reminded me how little I knew about the journey before me.
The markings, the message, the dream – it all taunted me.
Feeding my restless frustration, butterflies came and went, but I was still without a map.
Finally it happened – the sweet stream trickle of a butterfly song became the key.
Bone-deep searing pain engulfed me as the markings shifted, now clearly showing the beginnings of my map, while my mind’s eye cowered from the bombardment of incomprehensible dreamy images.
I couldn’t consciously wrap words around this silent song’s calling, yet I knew what was to come.
And though I saw my eventual death, I took firm steps toward the forest.