Cocooning
Realising that trying is pretty petty and that the purpose of life is to keep dusting yourself off all the time. Irrespective of the number of storms you can weather, there will always be another to knock you down again. The purpose was to survive, wasn't it? Survive and get where? After each hurdle there will come another one because unlike what I was made to believe, it isn't a flat surface which is a race, it is a never-ending race with barriers and hurdles.
And when you are done and tired and ready to settle in the dust, you let me know. We will cocoon then, hide within our own selves, afraid of ever finding new wings. This endless spinning of thread covers us with the dream that someday it may become better. But the dire hopeless blackness is the only thing that's visible right now.
Where would a cocoon turn for support when it has hidden within its own shame and dreams? Where would a cocoon ask for help? I wonder if the caterpillar loses hope eventually? Does it still believe that it has wings to sprout? Does it work to make those wings? Or does it remain? What happens to the caterpillar if the wings do not sprout? Will the caterpillar push from another part of its body? Will it try and try till it has the ability to fly? Perhaps he knows that he is being reared to be made into silk. So, he stops trying. He waits and waits for the day that he will enter into the boiling chemicals, to become the thread on another man's back. No dream of his own.
This particular caterpillar has managed to find a hole to peep outside of its own cocoon. What it sees is colours and butterflies, slapped with a million filters. He shrinks deeper inside his own cocoon, hoping that the walls will protect him from the outside world. The purples scare him now. The reds raise alarms. The blues and greens give it new nightmares of the boiling chemicals and the wings refuse to sprout.
Each time the caterpillar pushes to try for new wings, the wings are snipped off. Crushed back inside. And then the caterpillar gives up. Waiting to become something, anything that the hands of a tailor and a seamstress choose for it to become.
This is adulthood. So I guess I'll just hide and wait. One day at a time, right?
And when you are done and tired and ready to settle in the dust, you let me know. We will cocoon then, hide within our own selves, afraid of ever finding new wings. This endless spinning of thread covers us with the dream that someday it may become better. But the dire hopeless blackness is the only thing that's visible right now.
Where would a cocoon turn for support when it has hidden within its own shame and dreams? Where would a cocoon ask for help? I wonder if the caterpillar loses hope eventually? Does it still believe that it has wings to sprout? Does it work to make those wings? Or does it remain? What happens to the caterpillar if the wings do not sprout? Will the caterpillar push from another part of its body? Will it try and try till it has the ability to fly? Perhaps he knows that he is being reared to be made into silk. So, he stops trying. He waits and waits for the day that he will enter into the boiling chemicals, to become the thread on another man's back. No dream of his own.
This particular caterpillar has managed to find a hole to peep outside of its own cocoon. What it sees is colours and butterflies, slapped with a million filters. He shrinks deeper inside his own cocoon, hoping that the walls will protect him from the outside world. The purples scare him now. The reds raise alarms. The blues and greens give it new nightmares of the boiling chemicals and the wings refuse to sprout.
Each time the caterpillar pushes to try for new wings, the wings are snipped off. Crushed back inside. And then the caterpillar gives up. Waiting to become something, anything that the hands of a tailor and a seamstress choose for it to become.
This is adulthood. So I guess I'll just hide and wait. One day at a time, right?
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