I see a butterfly (monarch), with its tattered wings struggling to fly.

I know it wont...

I know it will die.

I wonder if the butterfly knows its demise.

Its lying on its back...

Wings spread convulsing...

Trying to make that one victorious flap.

It seems it wont stop till the moment of death.

Why is this affecting me?

Why am I feeling its pain?

How honorable it is for something like this insect to continue its true nature till the moment of death.

Does it have any choice?

Does it have the power of choice?

I look at that insect and I see myself.

It struck my inner nature as it was tossed about in the torrent of this Venezuelan wind. That I should not give up till the hour of death.

The beautiful wings wouldn't matter to me if it gave up.

Something so simple doing what its meant to do.

Before this sight I think of my inner self was crying out, that Im not striving to do what I was meant to do.

And now it has passed on...

Struggling, not giving in to its outwardly pain

Until the moment where its life was ended by natures course.

Interesting how every being passing notices this last struggle

And without hesitation leaves it on its course.

Honoring its last fleeting moments in this world.

Honoring its pain...

Its struggle

For deep inside they are connected... and will seek to attain that same glory.