Not even a month has passed since I've seen the last butterfly and I already miss them and their promises of renewal, rebirth. They've created countless expectations, hopes of changes that, today, live inside me in a chrysalis.They do not move. They do not open.
Perhaps they are really being gestated, these changes. Perhaps, this immobility, this absence of hope, is only the cover, the crust. Who knows, maybe inside, deep inside, alchemical transformations are ongoing. Hence, the pain, the lump in the throat, this need to see myself muted, to have myself alone. I miss the movement, the light and fast flapping of wings against the sky, but I cannot, today, like the butterflies, flap my wings. I cannot and do not wish to! At least, not yet!
I want an internal journey that follows other lives from blanket chrysalis warmed by wool socks and cotton made pijamas. I want the caring comfort of teas, books and music craddling and nourishing dreams of flights. I do not want flights! I miss longing for them, since I was so accostumed to the butterflies, but I do not want them, the flights. Yet, I hope! I do not want them yet! Some day, who knows?
No caterpillar ever told of the pleasure or the suffering of the chrysalis! But I tell you! There are a bit of both. And more pleasure there will be if the caterpillar accepts the withdrawal, accepts the uncertainty. One day, there will be butterfly flights. But only, if the internal journey is performed, the intense metamorphosis, lonely and deep, of the chrysalis.
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