Today I bled and no one saw
A forest full of trees and I’m the only one that fell.
Dawn came and the day prevailed, and after a while, it retired, shouldering the burden of moonrise and twilight, yet I was still but a figure lying in the dust. Exposed and bare to the tellurian ballet.
I became a home to parasites. Organisms grew proud inside of me, bestirred on top of me, and under me, but I was unable to stand tall as I once was.
My sentience was still intact. And my days were slow and empty; I became a ghost of change. My life wasn’t over, yet I was forced to suffer it. Not for me, but for the hangers-on. They strived but for me. My purpose was for them. I wished I could change it, but I was unable.
I became complacent, willing to accept the sycophant function I had affected, and my soul took roots in my new role. Although it was only a semblance of what I once was, my being was once again towering over the things that crawled along the ground beside me. I was lifted up by my resolve and supported by the spirits around me.
One day, a caterpillar made a cocoon in my withering branches.
He became my friend. As I watched, it worked, and from its body spun threads of gray and gold. I could not seem to understand the purpose of it all. It was walling itself inside, shutting out the world. All the while, it did not seem to provide the creature any comfort.
Weeks passed as I assumed my new task as a tomb for him. He swayed in the breeze, in the darkness, yet it never quite took him. Although he twirled and danced in it, and thrived in it, it never became his measure. He was now a piece of me, since he could not be bothered otherwise; Part of my ghost of change.
Until one morning, when the pink and dirty light reached up and on, the binding’s flesh grew cracks. Something stirred inside.
All of a sudden, my mind was afire with his consciousness. I could see that he did not come to me to die.
He came but to be transformed, so he could carry on.
From the folds of the cold dead shell hanging from me, color erupted. Out fluttered wings and flutter did my heart to see them.
The world as I thought I knew was a fallacy, a fake. I had been cast in a part, and I accepted who I was. I was living only for others, so others may in turn live on and be content. I died a little every day to be in this circle. And I thought I was never meant to be the butterfly everybody else saw.
But lo, there was an existence, a cosmos, a creation, all around me. Every day it begged to be a part of me, and from me, to grow.
I could hardly believe I exposed my breath of living to the harsh simple cyclic reality I thought my individuality entailed. I was always meant for more than a towering endurance, or being the support for others to leech.
There is more to Reality than perseverance. Reality is perfection of our perception. To see that there is always more.
I willed to see the merit of falling down, alone. I did not evolve to compare the worth of another, but I was endowed with my own. The tiny animals had worked at trying to get me to stand, and I had been forsaken, bleary eyed, and blind.
Though now I understood, and I had been permitted to peer beyond the veil of my own misery. With these thoughts in regard, my own flesh grew cracks, my own color erupted. I was being born again, not as the soaring entity I was once, but neoteric.
Now, continuing, uncut but bleeding. I walk, A Lord of my own kingdom. I had been pulled from the depths by the value of a butterfly, and now I will be forever grateful.