A new specimen of butterfly with a heart as body, simply because wings represent freedom.

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I am not a simple person —
I rest my mind in other dimensions
Housed by some kind of alienated specimen
That talks to me as I sleep
And that disperse as soon as the light shows its face,
I swim in strange oceans, amongst odd creatures
Amidst dry seaweeds and algae, and
Of some sort of sandy paste
That sticks into hairs, and on skin,
I play around on my paddling wheelbarrow boat
Spun like a thread in the hands of the Moiras
And my soldier of fate installs bitter thoughts
Into my heart, as if a reminder
Of my cruel designation as a mortal
Which imprisons gazillions of old atoms
Which travel in their own space universe
Aware of the tricks they play
Of the trouble they cause for a cause
And of the fear they instill inside hearts and soul
As they childishly play with that skin I despise,
And as soon as when the light comes shining 
On that part of my earth, I wave them goodbye
Where I go back right at the beginning
And we become mortals again, until then.

Fate is bound to determinism; freewill doesn’t exist when we believe in fate, when we let effects gently touch us, when we prefer to let something or someone else decide for us, simply because it’s more simple to live like that, that is, to walk on roads that have already been built. Not everyone has the time and patience to challenge their fate, but as I had the time, and enough guts to do it, I tried. And though how daunting, alienating, and hard it is, I love very much walking on this road, where it is writing and fate versus writing and freewill.

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