There was B.
There was D.

Back then, butterflies.
Armies of them.
Untrained. Overconfident.

They mistook adrenaline for destiny.
They arrived early.
They stayed too long.
They made a lot of unnecessary suggestions.

Now there is nothing.
No fluttering.
No echo.

Just a calm room.
A chair.
A window doing its job.

No one is heartbroken.
Nothing has gone wrong.
Some chapters simply close without applause.

And then there is V.

Butterflies appear again.
Fewer this time.
Better organized.

They wait.
They observe.
They seem to understand context.

They don’t ask for guarantees.
They don’t wave red flags.

These days, the butterflies arrive quietly and take notes.

Burnout happens when observation turns into performance.
When presence becomes proof.

I’m not interested in being visible at any cost.
Visibility is not meaning.

The essential practice is simple:
observe and record.

Systems measure what fits them.
They don’t measure depth.

Some work arrives early.
Some people, too.

Art doesn’t need to shout to exist.
It only needs to be honest — and held by those who recognize it.

That’s enough.