The Butterfly of Troy

I've had lots of thoughts to blog about, but without even a hint of easy access to a computer those get lost in the vastness of space and time.

Watched Troy last night. It's not quite as painful as watching Tristram and Isolde was but that moment when Hector walks out to meet Achilles, or the moment when Paris says "Father, burn it!" about the Greek's wooden horse, it still cuts to my bones. Because I'm a person who likes to fix things. And to watch others' mistakes, to know the humongous consequences of those mistakes, pains me.

In the case of Troy they mostly make those mistakes because of honor or because of religion (except selfish Achilles, who does them of stupidity), and then they're easier to bear. In Romeo and Juliet they make them because of youth and love, and it makes me disgusted with them. In Tristram and Isolde they make them at the wicked twist of chance, because of the tiniest circumstances and the goodwill of some, selfishness of others. Because of humanity and nature, you could say. So I watched until the pain got too great and I turned it off. I had to. My mind was imploding of sadness, and of fear for those tiny, tiny circumstances being the founding ground of life-altering decisions. The flapping of butterfly wings in Africa, that becomes the storm here.

I see these butterflies, and at times, the pain of their consequences becomes too great for one mind to handle. So I close my eyes. But the butterflies keep flapping whether I see them or not... and they're lucky to not have the brain tissue to care about the responsibility.