How do we spend our lives?
There is a constant flux of things happening in nature, and even the solid boundaries of seasons are slowly disappearing.
When a sunny day comes, it's only the noon when a brisk tiny wind appears, bearing white and rose petals of flowers, but it's obvious it comes from areas where the ice and cold still rules. Rare snowflakes are mixed with flower petals.
Man is closing his eyes, buttoning all buttons on his coat and feels like a weak, vulnerable creature, exposed to invisible dangers and surprises of the chaos, surrounding him from outside, and filling him from inside.
And when he opens his eyes for a moment, he sees in this whirl of petals and snowflakes, a small white butterfly, trying to save himself with desperate flaps of his weak wings, looking more like some deathbed twitches.
It also should be said, this play of light and colors on the gray background of a March landscape, is followed by a silent but sharp whining through branches of sparse conifers.
Looking at all this, I felt a thin but deep shiver in my whole body, a part of that large vague fear which sometimes fills us from head to heal and stops us frozen, in front of which we have to ask ourself: what are we humans, where do we think we live, and where is our short life really going by?
Serbian Novelist, Ivo Andric. Translated by SashaTweet