I/II. The Butterfly Alphabet A is a being in a state of flux. Certainly though, that’s not the explanation A would have given you as to why he prefers such a mononym all those years ago. A seven year old justification would have probably brought up the pleasing geometry in the arrangement of graphemes; how it resembled a triangle, his favourite shape, except with the bottom line raised to the centre. Perhaps A would also remark on the letter’s predilection in English semiotics; it is the premier letter of the alphabet as well as the asseverative emblem for the highest achievement we should strive to have our tests and assignments and examinations and artwork littered with. And indeed it was a title befitting the wearer; A was a prototypical straight-A student. Naturally gifted in absorbing juvenile academia, A soon grew resentful of his classmates using his mononym to equate him to an “apple polisher” or an overachiever. Over time, A proliferated the anonymity that the letter granted, allowing him to elude any and all preconceptions of what it is A actually is. He became something of an enigma in high school; many classmates would remark on the deep mystery and august disposition gleaned from their first impression of him. They would then note the idiosyncratic shock to find his goofy nature hidden behind the stoicism. A was assuredly deliberate in perpetrating this type of mercurial persona. A has now seen many incarnations of himself borne into that singular letter, each one just an elaboration on the previous concept. A welcomes all manifestations of what A could mean so that he can live truly untethered. A is a human, however. The way that A provides continuous reconstruction is not consonant to the maintenance of societal structures. As such, A has a birthday. A has an address. A lives in the neighbourhood of Malvern, in the division of Scarborough, in the city of Toronto. A is a Canadian citizen from a middle class family of Indian and Trinidadian heritage. A was meant to withdraw from the abstractions of life after a certain point and ​narrow​ in on a singular focus. All that A could think about, however, was how Toronto was named for a ​narrow​ channel of water north of Lake Simcoe - from the Mohawk word “Tkaronto”, meaning “place where the trees stand in the water”. It could have also been named after a Huron word for “plenty”, which was documented as another possible origin around the same time by the French. An arbitrary name for absconded lands befit the topography of A’s identity. A is a being in a state of flux, however. A grew weary of the arbitrary names and rebuffed the idea of standing like a tree in the water for the rest of one’s waking life. A retreated towards the heart of the Rouge forest, by which his house rested at the edge. The pathways, carved by lawn mower or trodden by deer hooves, have become familiar avenues over the last ten years for A to traverse when his mind is lost. On this particular day, A decided to finally resign his University studies. He was never particularly confident with his choice in enrolling in the Bachelor of Business program at Schulich - the prestige of the school, akin to the prescribed desire to receive A’s on our tests and assignments and examinations and artwork, led to the unanimous, no-brainer counsel from his family and peers to accept the offer of admission. A was equally as complicit in this belief that he was foreordained to go down a coveted path of post-secondary academia - given his grades, his brothers’ career paths, and the cultural indoctrination he grew up with like most children of immigrant families to value University degrees and an financially esteemed career above all else. He also hoped that Business could be the centre line between Math and English, his two favourite subjects - this would quickly prove itself not to be the case. A’s attendance was steadily becoming more sparse, so during this now rare appearance in an Economics lecture, his desire to continue his time at University had been finally absolved. A got into a progressively heated argument with his professor over a comment A made during the lecture regarding the professor’s assumption that Toronto’s name was French in origin. A pointed out the Mohawk or Huron origin of the name, to which the professor responded with an escalating level of personal attacks on A’s identity and demeanour towards the class. A could feel the way the narrowness of the professor’s anger very neatly encapsulated his entire dissatisfaction with being in school for Business. His soul didn’t belong in the world of finance and industry. And so, before returning home to inform his family of his decision, A made a retreat to the Rouge beach. The familiar wind crept through the crevices of the grass, awakening their balmy aroma. As A reached the initial stretch of sand overlooking the Rouge shores, the wind leapt off the forest trail above and dove headstrong towards the water before skittering off. Some of the wind found itself enticed by the healthy, yet docile flame that purred by the makeshift pit. The blooming tendrils played like puppets against the backdrop of rocks and trees. Leaning against a log nearest to the fire, the flame’s light introduced her silken visage set ablaze by the luminescence in her eyes. My name is Mara, she said. A had never been more transfixed by a primordial encounter. He stared at the palm lines etched into his hand, as if partly to affirm his reality as well as admire the mulberry satin glow of his skin against the warmth of the flame. What is your name? A. A? A. What does A mean? A stumbled over a branch as though his motor functions tuned to his entrancement with Mara like moth to flame. Mara smiled at A’s unplanned comedic timing. A can be a clown, if that’s what you need. Mara laughed and entered further. No really, what does A mean? A’s eyes wandered deeper into the heart of the flame, trying and failing to locate the singular root through which its erratic stalks bloom in and out of visibility. A is a being in a state of flux. In one afternoon I fundamentally changed so much about what I should have been, but I feel much the same. I think I’ve tried to be open to so many things that I’m not sure of the one thing that would unify myself in a harmonious way. The whole attempt at Business school was all to just try and satisfy some illusory societal perception of where and how my life should go given the circumstances I was born into. Based on the economic status and inherent moral value in academic success that exists in the South Asian culture I was born with, I should go and receive this degree as if it proffers some divine essence. And more degrees is just objectively better. As if nobody has done anything noble in the history of the world without a degree. I think my privileges in life from the sacrifices my parents made should have afforded me the ability to seek happiness as my main priority rather than financial success. My parents needed to take the first job they could get when they came here, which is basically the same story for most people I know who came here from the same places. I’m not trying to shit on Business or anything, I just don’t believe I need to force myself to do something I don’t want to do because it’s a privilege to do it and so I should be grateful. I think if we’re entitled to anything, it should be a chance to explore what we really desire. And that’s the true privilege my parents awarded me; I don’t have to narrow my choices. Look at the river ending there. It opens and narrows at different turns, responding to the trees and rocks and land and sand that stand in its way. I’ve been to different parts of the river my by house and looking since I was like nine, and it’s always looked the same. Yet it’s always moving, constantly changing. And then it comes down and throws itself out into the lake here, and the cycle continues. Stillness and motion, like two ways of looking at the same thing. Can’t we ascribe to that life? To live as free as the water and the fire and the trees and the wind? Sorry, I feel like I’m rambling now, and to a complete stranger no less. It’s flattering, actually, that you can be so open. And damn, you’re certainly good with words, A. You know, I feel like as you said that I’m just now starting to realize I’ve been told my whole life that my biggest skill was in storytelling. Basically every teacher I’ve had has always remarked on my ability to write and tell stories. I just never thought that telling stories could be the thing that defines you. I remember trying to conceptualize being a writer or author for a career as a child, but it just didn’t seem plausible. It also seemed like being a writer wouldn’t be a comprehensive use of my talents, but I guess that’s just me letting everybody get to my head about being smart.