A crack in the window let in a piece of art. A waking up child peers at it, trying to understand what could it mean. There was a mystery on the child's face, he did not know whether this was created by fairies or God or it wasn't made at all.
In his attempt to make sense of the aubade, he went on the black board and used up all the sticks to create what he saw. He travelled, his imagination travelled, he mixed up imagination boldly with his reality, breaking off all closed walls in his mind and soul. His heart beat faster as his strokes touched the board. His allicient movements were being watched by the butterfly sitting on the window rail.
It thought to herself, "it is me who this child is trying to squiggle."
The child went on with his movements without knowing what would emerge from the board. Image was a reflection of his inner movements, his inner life had caught fire with the drifting art.
He stood before it, watched it, reworked on it, darkened the shades, erased a few lines, took a couple of steps back and gave the widest smile of his morning.
"Look at us, we are on the board, look at our patterns, our colours, we look different and we look beautiful. He has changed us into who we wanted to be. Our realms have been interchanged. Should we go and thank him? How will we tell him anything because he doesn't speak what we do."
...the butterfly careened down the crack with a twig hidden in it's wings.
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