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De borboletas e casulos

Nem um mês passou desde que vi a última borboleta e já sinto falta delas e de suas promessas de renovação, renascimento. Criaram inúmeras expectativas, esperanças de mudanças que, hoje vivem encasuladas em mim. Não se movem, não se abrem. 
Talvez estejam mesmo sendo gestadas, essas mudanças. Talvez, essa imobilidade, essa desesperança, seja apenas a capa, a casca. Quem sabe lá dentro, bem lá dentro,  transformações alquímicas estejam em curso. Daí a dor, daí o nó na garganta, essa necessidade de se ver muda, de se ter só. Sinto falta do movimento, o leve e ágil bater de asas contra o céu, mas não posso, hoje, como as borboletas, bater asas. Não posso e não quero!  Pelo menos, ainda não!

Quero a viagem interna que acompanha outras vidas a partir de casulos de edredom, aquecidos por meias de lã e pijamas de algodão. Quero o aconchego dos chás, dos livros, das músicas, que embalam e nutrem sonhos de vôos. Não quero vôos! Sinto falta de desejá-los, acostumada que estava a elas, as borboletas, mas não os quero. Ainda, espero! Não os quero ainda! 

Nenhuma lagarta jamais contou do prazer ou do sofrimento do casulo. Mas eu lhes digo  que há um pouco dos dois. E mais prazer haverá, se a lagarta aceitar o recolhimento, aceitar a incerteza. Um dia, haverá vôos de borboletas. Mas somente se a jornada interna for realizada, a intensa metamorfose, longa e profunda, do casulo.

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