butterfly

For now, there is naught to do but change and change.

I wove a cocoon around myself—a cottony, grayish lump—making sure to spin it tightly, binding every member and limb. I started to blend—mixing, churning, changing—and my features lost their definition; my body its old shape. No one suspected it. No one suspects it as I continue to change and change—hidden from eyes inside the secure, claustruphobic tube I built around myself. I am allowed to be rueful. I am in transition. I am becoming something else.

But I built it knowingly; even happily—the difficulties were not a surprise once I wove the last layer of silk. I knew that I direly needed the change, the transition—that painful inbetween—before a colourful, full-winged future could be mine. I knew that the cocoon was the only way to regenerate my useless bones and idle soul.

And I will remain like this, a soup, for a time—my shapeless self needs to create wings and antennae and a tasteful honey-sucking tongue—but I will emerge.

Perhaps it will take longer than I hope. But I will emerge.