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In the garden bloomed an oleander bush, whose beautiful flowers attracted a butterfly with immaculate wings.
It was a perfect creature, without a single blemish or crack in its being. It flew with grace and elegance, alighting on each flower with the certainty of a god.
While the other butterflies flitted about, this one always knew where to go, what to do. Her life was a crystal horizon, free of doubt or fatal mistakes.
She would never know the bitter taste of failure or the sweet lesson of true love.
From her pedestal of perfection, she watched other creatures struggle, fall and rise.
But within him, an emptiness echoed, an echo of loneliness that no beauty could fill.
For to be perfect was to be incomplete, to lack the essence that makes beings human: the ability to err, to learn, to love despite imperfections.
And so, while the other butterflies danced in a symphony of life, the perfect butterfly rested solitary on the oleander, trapped in its own prison of sterile and unchanging beauty.