Caterpillar likes his life. He chomps his chunky
greens and ruminates. He has put a few pounds: that's contentment, a physical
manifestation of his ease in the world. Literally, he is growing in importance.
He has a cousin the same age as him, the same growth
spurt. Cousin Caterpillar is nervous about his girth though. It makes you a
bigger target for predators he says, and what are we growing for?
How a metamorphic invertebrate feels is irrelevant,
Caterpillar reminds himself. He spins himself a chrysalis. Cousin Caterpillar
must do just the same. If one is a caterpillar, this is what must be done. It's
a fine job, velvety, rich looking, it fits to perfection.
But inside the pod it is so dark!
He can hear his heart beating and it doesn't sound
right at all.
He can hear the wind rising outside and do nothing
more to shelter himself.
He is stuck. He closes his eyes though there's no
point.
After this: after this he will not know the world at
all.
He will not know anything!
He seeks to remember. He cannot remember.
What should he not forget?
In the dark he feels lost. He dissolves. He is lost.
When the spun pod splits open and Butterfly slides out he knows: he doesn't
know how, he just does. He offers his wings to the daylight. As soon as they
uncrumple, he will fly.
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