“Butterflies represent a transformation of human soul…Every time I’m doing a butterfly I’m actually transforming somebody’s soul…butterflies are free. They’re delicate.”
by Marisabel Bazan
“A non-Kafkaesque Metamorphosis”
Fiction. Based on a True Story of Humanity
This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
Trigger Warning: our program often motivates people to discuss their trauma. If you find yourself feeling overwhelmed, please, take a step back to address emotional flashbacks and trauma before continuing to push yourself. If you are experiencing a medical emergency, call 911 or the National Suicide Hotline at (1-800) 273-8255.
For the Stranger On The Other Side:
Suddenly your barrel is no longer cold, metallic gray. You watch it morph to green, a cocoon of futures in your hands. You wonder if a soul’s long journey could change in an instant—but it’s not the soul of the person on the other side of the shaft, the one in your sight. You are thinking of yourself, your own soul.
For if the barrel in your hands shot bullets, what would happen to your soul? Could it be that perhaps you were summoned here by something other than who might be looking out for you? Could it be that you came here to face the abyss, not the abyss of an imagined enemy, but the long, endless drop that you have been setting up for yourself? It is as though in this moment, the person on the other side, the one you came to vanquish, has disappeared on their own, replaced by a replica of yourself. It is as if to pull the trigger is to shoot your own soul in the heart, like a wooden stake in a vampire’s heart. And what would happen?
What is happening? You were so hardened, so tough, so strong. You came here with a purpose, with your armor and your army. Suddenly your muscles start relaxing and your lungs fill again. You hear your heart beating, finally. It’s been getting louder, trying to get your attention with all the blood in your body, but you couldn’t hear it with the bubble of a helmet covering your ears, complete with padded lies and the constant demands projected over a radio, blaring over your psyche and forcing you into an echo chamber.
What is happening?
You have broken through the echo chamber, the cocoon of hate.
It is a transformation.
For in this moment of catalysis, something has shifted. The death machine in your hands feels limp and you imagine that instead of bullets, it will produce butterflies. Why would you shoot butterflies out of a barrel? That seems silly. So you put the gun away.
You turn around and realize you are a different person. You are a person who looks out for souls. You almost weren’t.