on potential

If you were to ask a caterpillar what it knew of silk it would only speak of hunger. The solitude required for metamorphis is exhausting; it's every instinct is attuned to accumulation.

But caterpillars cannot communicate; they are all legs, teeth and tastebuds. It's whole being is segregated into bundles of What Will Be.

Destiny need not be tangible. The caterpillar is a masticating blue print. Evolution winks and clucks it's tongue, "Kid you got potential; this cluster of cells will one day be antennae, this one here a wing."

The caterpillar eats on.

The heart of a butterfly is a long and slender muscle, stretching along it's nervous system, suspended between it's wings. If you teach an old caterpillar new tricks they will be recalled upon metamorphosis.

If you ask a butterfly what it knows of flight it will tell you that it is somewhere between though and emotion.

If you ask it what it remembers of childhood it will teach you to taste your dreams.

Deluge

The monsoon stalks me. Skulking round corners whilst I busy myself indoors; stays poised while I ready myself for the world. With the click of the key, I hear the patter of footsteps; clouds running across the sky to my door. The dog scowls. "I can't help it" I protest, "Not even the moon rules the rain." The tides answer to lunation. Sentient beings and seasons fall in line with the sun. But the rain answers to nobody. It is an outlaw, a vagabond, a rouge. The muffled light softens my focus. In that other place the sun exposes all things for their harshness; beauty is stark, boundaries defined. Here, I am washed so clean that new life grows over me. My skin blooms with the algae, ever mutating, I am perfecting the art of evolution. Mangrove seeds wedged between rocks send sprouts north and south. I make them my mentor, in this captivity I grasp upwards and hunt below.