cocoon or butterfly’s life
I am inside a cocoon, and suspended are: time, space, and the urge to act or speak. I am inside a cocoon, being myself also a cocoon, because I know in a few minutes I will need to speak and act. I will need to smile, and I will need to climb cold mountains. I will need to provide, to be the provider, a builder, and turn the directions of clouds starting with my whispers, whisper by whisper, until turning the storms to the opposite direction and creating pathways far away along sunflower seeds. I will need to defend and perform and be genuine. I will need to be in the world.
But a few seconds before all this, I am inside the cocoon. I am also myself a cocoon, and while this, relieved to not be touched by anything. Don't touch me! Even a small breeze can start a rain inside me, because it will carry and touch me with its infinite information: that breeze containing memory molecules, the entire world and wars and pleasures within that small particle of air (nitrogen, oxygen, argon, carbon dioxide): the memory of the world and time. I don’t want to touch it. I don’t want to be touched. In the cocoon: no time, no space, breeze or memory.
So inside the cocoon, I might be praying in silence, I might be smiling or crying. Quitly. I am just inside the cocoon, where my body is exercising being without expectations and memories. Cocoon with no timeline, part of the world.
I am static, though only my insides move moving without realizing its magic.
Before it becomes butterfly.