In a corner of my mind, there lies a realm called Silva Nigra; a forest of blackened leaves.
At its heart stands Aristolochia, a castle woven from biomolecules.
There, Troides helena dwells.
Outside my mind, she is merely a butterfly growing rare, cast aside by human exploitation of the tropical forests.
Queen Helena is renowned for her exquisite beauty. Her forewings are a deep, ink-black; her hindwings a vibrant yellow, etched with poetic, dark patterns.
Those who lack the courage to paint upon a canvas choose instead to preserve her corpse.
A needle is driven through. The black wings are spread wide. The yellow is put on display.
Then they stand proudly before the carcass, as if they had truly created something. And then, they sell it as butterfly art.
Out there, Troides helena is no queen. She is but a representation of human lethargy in art.
But not here.
Within my mind, where reality is forced to bow to what I believe ought to be, she is Queen Helena.
Every beat of her wings is a defiance against the exploitation that ravages the Aristolochia.
She and I both know the world outside still exists. A world that would gladly repeat the same old cycle: to discover, to admire, and then to destroy.
And perhaps, that is the only reason Helena will never truly go extinct.
Because I have not yet finished imagining her.