THESEUS'S CHRYSALIS (2021)

Have you heard the tale of the boat, the vessel of the humans?

They used it to access the seas, something none of us here were close enough to do. But we all knew someone who'd known someone who'd felt the mist in the air; it stuck to their wings and weighed them down, as if summoning them into the ocean's depths.

One of the older butterflies spoke of such, of the boat, relaying to my siblings and I the overheard words of the humans. There was a boat, owned by a human, a long, long time ago. They made the boats out of trees like the one we lived in, taking their branches and renaming them Wood. The boat grew old and weary, but instead of letting it die, the humans replaced piece by piece, called it the same boat, the same being.

But, and the butterfly stopped there, and silence hung marred only by the sounds of our chewing, they began to think, and they kept thinking, years and years later, was it still the same boat, even after all of the parts had been replaced? Even after such a consequential transformation?

They died that next week, that butterfly. We went on eating.

All of us know how it goes. The humans must know, too, with how they change as we grow. Not their bodies - often, humans will look the same from the moment we are born to the moment we're here no longer. It's their eyes that change. The curiosity and veiled disdain for caterpillars, the awe towards the butterfly. Do they not realize we're the same?

I've heard this question asked a million times before, by those around me, caterpillars and butterflies alike, but I've never been able to conceptualize it. I don't think it's true. I don't think I'll be the same when I become a butterfly. I don't think anyone is. No one I've ever met, at least. They look different, they smell different, they feel different. They don't want to touch anymore. The butterflies say it's so nice, the freedom. The wings feel so nice on your back. They bring you closer to the air, you can feel them, you can feel the wind, swirling around you, even when perched. And you can return to the tree whenever you want, to the plants, to take a break. Or to mate, to lay your eggs. To make more caterpillars who will become butterflies.

But I don't know the wind like that. I know how the tree feels about us. They feed us, and give us somewhere to take shelter day after day, a home. I have hope that we provide them with company, too, and warmth. I don't know if the wind will be that kind, when we're intruding on their space. In grasping our freedom, aren't we taking away some of theirs? It might be inconsequential, because I know the world is large, and the only chance I'll have of seeing that largeness is growing up. But if there are a million butterflies, and a million birds and bugs and humans and everything else, doesn't the wind get tired of it all? I have my one tree, and I know there are a million trees. But isn't there just one air, really? I recognize it in their anger. I recognize their anger. I want to apologize to them, but I don't know how. I'll become a butterfly whether I want to or not.

I hear as the humans grow, they change only in terms of age. None of us have ever seen this happen, but our stories tell of their gradual shift as generations cycle one by one. Why should we be any different? Can I not dream of keeping my old flesh? Are there no elder caterpillars, can I not be the first? Everyone knows that when you become a butterfly, it means it's time to die. I don't want to know when I'm going to die. I don't want to die a butterfly, some foreign creature with my head and thoughts. I want to die soft and comfortable. I want to be myself when I die. 

They said this was the proper way, that the sleep and the becoming was natural. That it was beautiful, that we become beautiful. Beautiful according to who? The humans, who'd just as easily step on us, crush us in their palms, moments after ogling our new, fresh, forms? Is it not just as natural to be afraid? Is it so wrong to be terrified of change, to seek refuge in familiarity? If I had always known I was eating just to prepare to become something so distant from myself, I would have stopped a long time ago. I would have let myself taper out, becoming one with the tree before I grew too old for anyone to miss me. I think I would have liked myself more. I think I would have more respect for the butterflies, too.

But I've only just stopped eating, and it's not because I'm planning to die. It's what I need to do to keep going. To transform, to grow. My fear-or-desperation-induced immobility has loosened me from my skin for what feels more final than any of the other times. I know it's time. I know it's time, but if it makes me feel so bad, how could it be good for me? How can it be such an integral part of our lives, of mine?

I feel my consciousness dissolving from my body. I feel my body dissolving from my body. I want to know that I'll remember this feeling, but I feel that I'll never be sure. I feel so lost. I don't know what to do. I don't know if there's anything I can do but to keep going. 

If I'm being reconstructed in my entirety, maybe when I emerge, I'll be happy. Everyone else seems like that. They seem really happy. If it's natural, maybe it's good, and I'll be okay.

When I wake up, I'll ask forgiveness from the air. Maybe I'll go visit the ocean. I hope I remember.