Here I am, on the precipice of my chrysalis. Pressing against the dried, transparent walls of my cocoon. Can you see my coloration? I don't worry about what shape or decoration I will take when I emerge but the shape of the world I'm emerging into. But then again, just as all acting is reacting, I don't actually give a fuck about what shape your petty, fetid world is in. It is not mine to control, so what matter should I give to my mind over its form? I guess the tables turned, the facade is down: I do truly, actually worry what shape I will become. How I will be pressed and molded as I molt and shed, poked and bled by this greedy machine of consumption. I'd hope it's "as an avenging angel doing the work of God." But how do I guide that hope – that intention – into practice? Such notions make wrestling matches in my mind, the spectacle of thought.
If I haven't stated it so clearly before, then here: This world was not made for me but I belong in it.
