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Butterfly Sayings 🦋 in 2021
The butterflies. What an educated sense of beauty they have. They seem only an ornament to society, and yet, if they were gone, how substantial would be their loss.
The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls the butterfly.
Death consists, indeed, in a repeated process of unrobing, or unsheathing. The immortal part of man shakes off from itself, one after the other, its outer casings. And as the snake from its skin, the butterfly from its chrysalis, emerges from one after another, passing into a higher state of consciousness.
Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet depart! Dead times revive in thee: Thou bring’st, gay creature as thou art! A solemn image to my heart.
Do you ever feel as if everything surrounding you is in slow motion, moving through tar? There you are, and there’s the world. You’re outside staring in the window, observing reality happen, but you don’t exist in it. You just watch, and watch. That’s how I feel, like the dead butterfly staring back at you through the glass.
I like to read books and be alone; I’m not social butterfly person.
Death consists, indeed, in a repeated process of unrobing, or unsheathing. The immortal part of man shakes off from itself, one after the other, its outer casings, and – as the snake from its skin, the butterfly from its chrysalis – emerges from one after another, passing into a higher state of consciousness.
The butterfly said to the sun, ‘They can’t stop talking about my transformation. I can only do it once in my lifetime. If only they knew, they can do it at any time and in countless ways.’
When you find yourself cocooned in isolation and despair and cannot find your way out of the darkness, remember that this is similar to the place where caterpillars go to grow their wings.
Alongside the practical thought something else struggled and, like an escaped butterfly, took wing: the assurance of something wonderful awaiting her. Just around the corner.
This magnificent butterfly finds a little heap of dirt and sits still on it; but man will never on his heap of mud keep still.
His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly’s wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred.