One of the few pleasures I have had while I have been sick is the garden in my front yard. Amidst a tangle of milkweed, Monarch butterflies have laid their eggs and they have hatched into caterpillars. There they crawl about, eating the leaves in rhythmic and hypnotic quarter-circles, sticking to the bottom of the leaves, defying gravity, to escape the bare sun. And now, dying. They are eaten from the inside by parasitic fly larvae and deliquesced by viruses.
Why does this world kill the beautiful things?
Caterpillars are just a microcosm of the whole. Beautiful things are killed unequivocally, and those not killed are made as ugly as the rest. Fireflies die young. Lilacs flower for but weeks. Monsters begin as children.
The soul, most beautiful of all creations, is the most commonly killed beauty of all. Violence, greed, hate: all poison the soul, mar its purity, its innocence, its joy. They dissolve, melting into the same sickening poisons, in turn, poisoning more and continuing the cycle. Perhaps, that is the most terrifying thing of all: the devils were once human, cast into hell by the wickedness of others, garbed in evil by a world that did not love them.
Is it for the best then that the beautiful things die? Die physically before they die wholly? Death protects them by destroying them.