Something caught my eye in the middle of work the other day. A simple geometric pattern of a golden butterfly printed on a piece of white, single-lined notes. I recalled a saying about golden butterflies made of time sand, then.
It’s a childish story, I’ve forgotten where I heard it. Maybe it was too long ago. It was a short story about how a lonely child chased a golden butterfly through his dreams to the ends of time (literally), and finally caught it after much strive.
The golden butterfly dissolved into golden sand at the mere touch of his small hands, and the startled child started crying with the lost of his ‘friend’.
An old man appeared, and told him to turn back, saying that the boy was lucky he had a second chance. The boy turned back, and followed a trail of golden sand left behind by the golden butterfly back into his original dream, and when he woke up, his mother was there, hugging her son tightly, because for long minutes, he simply wouldn’t awaken from his afternoon nap.
The old man was Father Time, apparently.
I’m quite certain that I messed up some details, but the gist of it was that the young boy’s soul had followed a stray strand of time into oblivion, and had essentially left behind his own time.
The moral of the story is lost to me, but I could guess that it must’ve been about keeping track of time.
What a funny story to tell that.