A butterfly. How delicately she flies, how softly her wings indent the breeze, so fragile, so yet undeniably beautiful. She had often found herself wondering, how such a faint being can take flight, against the continuous forces rising against her. Yet once again the wings keep beating, unfazed and unaltered par fear. Can a being with such a dainty appearance remain true of heart, when all around her seems lost?
Is this true of all that surrounds us? we are each donné choices, we are all alike, are we this butterfly? Are your wings beating in desperation to keep some how airborne, ou are toi riding with a wind of triumph, with endless gumption?

If Lila was to answer this question a an ago, she most probably would have met it head on and her brash and incoherent way of thinking would have decided upon the easiest answer, a lie. She would have told toi with total conviction that she was happy. Its so easy to lie, her mind wondered again, no one gets hurt that way. As she lay on the damp, sodden herbe beneath her she could so easily have lie once more.

The distraction came at last from a speck of water, that landed harsh against her check, then joined par another and the gentle pitter- patter of the heavens began. Her mind once again launched into an ferocious internal battling, this time with the concept of moving. Now this could prove immensely difficult.
Eventually her mind gained the higher ground and her bodies feeble attempt of disagreement fell with what had now turned into a fully fledged down-pour.

This was quite tediously common of Crookhaven, the rain fell as easily as the perpetual sound of Perry Cider into pouring into pint glasses, as local merchant sailors frequented the local public house and amerced themselves in deep conversations about the ‘good-old days’. An Ye old Fish, as it was appropriately named, was a typical pub. Lila had always avoided it just as much as her irrational, bag of a grandmother, the smell of ash trays and incandescent light was enough to make her begins to relish in the idea of wondering into the precipitous rocks of old Isorease.

Lila, herself, could not actually pint point in her knowledgeable and quite substantial mind, when there had ever been any sign of the ‘good-old days’ in Crookhaven. As far as she was concerned the only time she could remember, was when a professor Lane introduced her to the concept of Global warming. This, as far as she was concerned, was the only plus side to the endless, repetitive lashing of waves, that filled her apparently condemned head, constantly. The idea that the island on which she believe kept her captive, would one jour become no plus than an indistinct rock, thrilled her beyond belief and managed to somehow keep her afloat in a place she would never, call home.

She wanted nothing plus than to sprout wings and fly back to civilisation, although doubts once plus filled her head, could she, invisible, normal and totally descript little Lila, survive in the real world, exciting and invigorating. She could not even approach, let alone be friend the monotonous people who occupied that which most called school, what hope would she have, none, there would be coffin ready and waiting at the dock of the mainland and before her insignificant feet even touch perfection, it would once plus be snatched from her grasp and they would nail her inside with a note ‘ Lila Meyers, not worth the effort’.

This though made her chuckle, as the dark, matted, mess that was once a golden brown lay limp on her pale face.......................