Last night, I opened and started to read the book that you gave me, The Little Prince. How I wish you had never accepted it, never handed it to me with a smile, and never made me curious about its pages.
As I read it, I feel a growing sadness in my chest, a heaviness that I cannot bear. I feel helpless, powerless, hopeless.
I wouldn't suffer so much if I were a butterfly, fluttering from one flower to another, savoring your scent, drinking your nectar, and then flying away.
But people are not like butterflies; they fall in love, they form bonds, they cling to each other. You become the planet, the whole world of the person who loves you.
If the love is mutual, there is no more separation, no more distinction. You become one, and the bliss of being fills you up.
You become passion. You become kindness. You become authentic. You become brave.
Man is not a butterfly and woman is not a flower.
But there are men who degrade themselves to a primitive life form like a butterfly and land on every flower they see.
And there are women who expose themselves to butterflies, thinking that the highest beauty that existence can offer is the simple beauty of the flower.
The butterfly is the primitive form of the bee. And bees are poisonous. A few wasp stings can kill a strong man.
The bee who insisted on giving you the book, who went out of his way to make it a gift for you, is a wasp, a poisonous bee.
He tells you "I am the little prince with the innocence of a child and you are just a flower".
"You need me, without me you will be cold".
And he also tells you: "don't trust your four thorns and open yourself to me".
The sheep that the Little Prince keeps in a closed box is the symbol of meekness. The sheep is meek, but this is not the meekness of the Little Prince. The Little Prince wants to use meekness as a weapon. Meekness will devour the doubt or envy that will grow around his little planet like a tree.
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