There are butterflies in my dreams of late, but they don’t seem to mean anything. In fact, if anything, as they carelessly flutter around me, the insects seem to be drawing attention to the lack of meaning in my life. On occasion, I’ll reach out to grab one, but it crumbles into sand like a stale sugar cookie in my fist. I’m reaching toward the life I’ll never have, because unlike the butterfly, I’ll never metamorphose. No. It’ll always be just me, gradually shifting toward a less productive version of myself with ever increasing pains, and I’ll never fly.