le mystère du papillon

While my morning coffee began to wear off during the second hour of today’s French workshop, I found myself entering the typical student mindset: uninterested, unaware, and entirely unenthused. As my hand moved further up my cheek and my head fell closer to my chin, I was stirred by something that can only be described as completely surreal. 

In front of my glazed eyes was a flickering butterfly, just floating in mid-air as if waiting for some form of acknowledgement. Before I was able to fully comprehend this rather peculiar phenomenon, the entire class seemed to be on its feet, sending the poor butterfly into a panic. After an unsuccessful search around the room’s exterior for an exit, the butterfly flew to my desk, where it sat on my paper, seemingly asking me for guidance. At this point, I scooped him up into my hands, took him over to the window, and set him free.

My teacher, having the heart of a French woman, encouraged me to think of this as an omen for some sort of romantic exploit. I, being, well, me, couldn’t help but take her advice. I left class feeling as though my romantic visions of France were about to be fulfilled, and as though I was soon to experience my own version of a fairy tale.

I took one step out of the NYU building and found myself to be standing in a massive, and quite fresh, pile of dog shit. My visions of romance dissipated immediately; my hope was shattered. 

At this moment, I could not help but notice, and even laugh at, this complete juxtaposition of sentiments. I had just been in the realm of total surrealism, captivated by the beauty and romance of my butterfly friend, only to be ripped out of it by something so foul. Was this some kind of sign that the surrealism of romance and I just aren’t meant to coexist? Were the heavens trying to tell me to plan my life accordingly? I was completely dumbfounded.

People say that romance is dead, something of past generations, and that perhaps we, ourselves, have killed it. If so, why does it seem as though everywhere I look, it is staring at me, laughing at my inability to take part. Couples on vespas. Lovers on the banks of the Seine. Jeff, the lone one. What do I get when I have the slightest bit of faith in my future romantic endeavors? Dog shit.

Being the person that I am, I in no means want to believe this. And deep down, I know that romance is alive. It is just much more of a phenomenon than we like to think. One just has to realize that love, like the fluttering butterfly, is much more of a mystery than the world makes it out to be.