I wonder whether caterpillars sleep sound on the scent of summer, dreaming of butterfly wings and soaring skies.
Do they know where they’re going when their days stiffen and still? Or do they struggle and strain against the momentum of a change unnamed, their own drive into what might just be destruction?
Perhaps to the caterpillar, the chrysalis seems a cage, a crisp curl of death on the wind.
I wonder, whether it mourns for the life it is losing, without knowing what else might come to be, without a vision of what else could grow?
There is a journey, a process to becoming, and it rarely comes with a guidebook. There is death in every life, a fall in every rise. There is pain in metamorphosis.
I wonder whether caterpillars crave the touch of clouds, the kiss of air, life made more vivid, but then push the urges aside as thing best unspoken, unasked for, longings caught from another’s heart.
I wonder whether butterflies look back and laugh at the modesty of their earth bound ambitions..
Tonight I feel caught in my own questions, netted by my own logic.
I am faced with the realisation that to unfurl something new, I have to let go of a lot of what I have called myself.
I have skins to shed and I am not sure I know how. I’m not sure that there will be enough of me left to know myself, that the risk is worth the hazard.
But of course, we all want to be beautiful, we all hope to shine and ache for our own shimmer of iridescence. There can be colour in many kinds of life.
We each carry the spirit, the kernel, of who we could become like a high floating hope we alone don’t see. Our only choice is whether to gamble on growth, on breaking to become.
Tonight I ache, itch, twitch with the unease of seeing more than I should, knowing more and less.
I am grounded, muddled, confused, but dreaming of streaming up straight into a brazen blue sky.
I want to see a flash of colour on the wing and believe there is something better worth this becoming… I want to lose my fear in flight.