To whom it may concern,
I am now the gooey liquid inside the cocoon, no trace of the caterpillar or the mythological butterfly the stories promise.
I am the new moon, invisible to the naked eye. See me if you can, the ghost, putting my ethereal hand on the door knob expecting it to turn. My gumby legs collapsing under the weight of my emotional body as I try to run. When food tastes like sand and the sun only rises in sepia, what then?
Peering out of my one eye peep hole, I am comforted in my kennel of confusion. It's a vortex of slow blues, lucid dreaming, and stained sheets. Watching myself from above, I am curious what this strange animal will do next. Picking off the scabs of who I've been and still surprised how I bleed.
Placing your orders right now is futile. Productivity is a foreign tongue and reminds me that I am not a human doing, at least not all of the time. Times like this, uncomfortable and awkward are only for being. Stay present, don't check out. After all there are no epidurals for the birthing of one's Self. Damn.
On a funnier note, as I typed this I received two accidental one word texts from my mother. The same message 2 minutes apart: "be". Got it mama. Thanks.
Metamorphism: Alteration of the composition or structure by means of heat, pressure, or other natural agency.
