A Frame In Time

There was a moment in time I sought to recapture, to frame and preserve upon my wall like a colourful innocent butterfly. For this end, to science I strove, pouring my eyes into calculations and theoretical equations in hopes of creating a machine to achieve my goal. My vision faded and my knowledge gained little traction. Eventually my books and journals of science lay by my doors, sprouting flowers of dust while their pages turned to gold. To history I adventured next, searching through the ages of great victors to see how they sustained such power and pride, thinking surely such a glorious framed moment was a pittance of a task to them. Instead of perfection I was greeted by tragedy, dulling my taste and saddening my resolve for such ambition: how absolute power was so absolutely corrupting to lead one down a path of cruelty and indifference. To literature then, expressions of pure creativity to inspire fresh ideas within me. I read book after book, compelled by stories but inspired to my specific action by none of them. My hearing became clogged by so many ideas that meant nothing to my purpose, like muffled traffic within my ears. Now to public service, the noblest of commitments, that I might rediscover such similar virtue deep within the commons of humankind. Countless hours I worked with unfortunate others, in hopes of both recapturing my precious moment and creating one for them. My sensation of touch numbed from the effects of sifting through these sad lives, as I felt I was hardly making an important enough difference until the moment I then felt nothing at all. At last I caved for commerce, to make quick pursuit of wealth that I might simply purchase my lost moment and hang that poor butterfly on my wall. Deals and trades, transactions and handshakes, feeding chum to the numbers in my chequebook. These swingings of assets were not all prosperous, for despite improving experience my ability to smell out bad deals from good ones deteriorated and crashed. Now I was senseless, drifting within a void I was incapable of understanding and without the tools to interact with it. I pondered my precious moment, now blurred, silent and drained of all vividness, and through those inflicted limitations I could not understand why I had worked so hard to chase and capture the spirit of it. The moment yes, had truly been worthy of such dedication and honour -- whispered my memories while guiding my hand through the nothingness. The moment could have been revisited, like an old town where the colours of paint on the houses fade and peel in the rain. But the butterfly is meant for flight, not a cage in a frame of glass.