Beautiful Death

I've been asked how I feel about this work. If I have passion for it. I thought that was apparent, but perhaps I kept my emotions veiled from eyes deliberately--because I've been told I'm too sentimental anyway. So I protected myself to keep my island afloat in the cold, dark sea.

How do I feel about Beautiful Death, you ask? Well, where do you think the butterfly came from? (You did notice the indigo butterflies flitting around these pages, didn't you?) After this, the crippled, maimed little bug dragged her broken wings over here and became Isabella's motif. Instead of giving up and dying all over again.

While trapped in that tight, constrictive cocoon, I imagine the little caterpillar must have thought she died when she finally lost consciousness. Tired of being an ugly, awkward, stupid slug, maybe she thought death was a blessing. She died to give birth to stained-glass wings.

Sometimes death must happen to allow for rebirth.

The butterfly still can't fly, but she's trying. In the meantime, she learned how to kill.