Once you get more familiar with the gardens and its inhabitants, in all their colors and places to hide, you also begin to question the broken wings as you see them hit the ceiling and dusty windowpanes. As you see them crawling on the ground in desperate attempts to fly once again, doomed to be disposed like trash because this is not the heaven of butts and buggs but solely a tourist attraction. And butterflies are supposed to be beautiful not crippled.
Sure in wildlife broken wings will happen as well and sure they are exposed to their many predators. But, and this is my true belief, once you decide to take an animal in, no matter if dog, pig or butterfly, you better give them the best life you can offer. Otherwise, don’t pretend, not even for a second, that you would care about animals when all you want is shiny wings and paying costumers.
If I had the choice to live until a hundred and one in small apartment in Berlin with five meals a day, Netflix and consoles or to live out of doors in this fucked up world full of dangers and wonders, with a fair chance to get hit by a car, bitten by a snake, drowned in the ocean, ending up with blood poisoning because I can’t help myself playing with strays and nosebears, I would choose the wild every single time. Because as I read in the cloud reserve on a corny sign which I happened to like a lot of course: nothing ever dies in the forest, life is just transforming. The wild is forever they say and just like Ikarus, you have to feel the burning sun sometimes. And if you end up with the broken wings of butterfly I rather be surrounded by giants in green and filthy sloths then a grey apartment in Berlin.