I was never the boy who liked to tear the wings from the butterfly, and marvel at the simple destruction I’d caused. I was the kid who freed the butterfly from the spider’s web.
Yet when I became a man, I’d realized I became the man who liked to tear off butterfly wings. Because that’s the kind of world we lived in, where beauty was decimated and labeled art. Beauty had to be raped by intellectually vain peeps and refined, overprocessed, overthought. It couldn’t be organically wrought anymore. People were too politically correct for that kind of raw like sushi spontaneity where you’re in it for the creative high.