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Metamorphosis.
Nov. 11th, 2005 12:03 pm"Once I, Zhuang Zhou, dreamt that I was a butterfly. The butterfly did not know that it was Zhuang Zhou. Suddenly I awoke with a start and was Zhuang Zhou again. But I do not know whether I am Zhuang Zhou, who dreamed that he was a butterfly, or whether I am a butterfly dreaming that he is Zhuang Zhou. Between Zhuang Zhou and the butterfly there must be some distinction. This is what is called 'the transformation of things'." -Zhuangzi, Chapter 2.
From cocoon to cocoon the butterfly changes,
and dreams he's a dream in the mind of a boy.
Each time he crawls out, he fancies he's faded,
been sewn up a little tighter by the lines of his scars.
Dreams shrink; strangeness gets bled out;
and every memory is just another discarded chrysalis.
They lie in rows like gravestones, broken shapes
he crawls into sometimes as though trying to wear them,
to get back what he once dreamed he was.
Every skin he sheds, every time some dead part of him sloughs off, he wonders
if one day his innermost self will open, like a matryoshka doll,
and he will be empty. Vanished.
When he's the boy and not the butterfly, he feels differently.
It isn't as though those things he loses in molt are anything
he wanted to keep. He collects regrets like scars. He doesn't want them,
wants to lose them, to have pure, unblemished skin again,
but that doesn't stop him from picking at the scabs, because
he wants to remember, and he knows that memories leave marks.
If there was a way to change and stay beautiful, to not make the mistakes
of the past, he'd take it. He goes out into thunderstorms like he believes
the rain will wash his sins away. So what if the years make the butterfly smaller, uglier?
It's better than bloating, retaining the past too long, holding onto it until
you're held down by its weight. You leave the mistakes behind you. You don't
forget them. That's the path to take, he's sure of it.
In that moment between waking and sleep, when dreams melt like cotton candy or dry ice,
when it doesn't really matter whether he's boy or butterfly, whether he's destroying himself one piece at a time or pruning off the dry and dead in favor of new life,
he's at peace to stop wondering. There's something he knows in that moment. When his eyes open, he'll forget.
I got some of the ideas from what I said here.
From cocoon to cocoon the butterfly changes,
and dreams he's a dream in the mind of a boy.
Each time he crawls out, he fancies he's faded,
been sewn up a little tighter by the lines of his scars.
Dreams shrink; strangeness gets bled out;
and every memory is just another discarded chrysalis.
They lie in rows like gravestones, broken shapes
he crawls into sometimes as though trying to wear them,
to get back what he once dreamed he was.
Every skin he sheds, every time some dead part of him sloughs off, he wonders
if one day his innermost self will open, like a matryoshka doll,
and he will be empty. Vanished.
When he's the boy and not the butterfly, he feels differently.
It isn't as though those things he loses in molt are anything
he wanted to keep. He collects regrets like scars. He doesn't want them,
wants to lose them, to have pure, unblemished skin again,
but that doesn't stop him from picking at the scabs, because
he wants to remember, and he knows that memories leave marks.
If there was a way to change and stay beautiful, to not make the mistakes
of the past, he'd take it. He goes out into thunderstorms like he believes
the rain will wash his sins away. So what if the years make the butterfly smaller, uglier?
It's better than bloating, retaining the past too long, holding onto it until
you're held down by its weight. You leave the mistakes behind you. You don't
forget them. That's the path to take, he's sure of it.
In that moment between waking and sleep, when dreams melt like cotton candy or dry ice,
when it doesn't really matter whether he's boy or butterfly, whether he's destroying himself one piece at a time or pruning off the dry and dead in favor of new life,
he's at peace to stop wondering. There's something he knows in that moment. When his eyes open, he'll forget.
I got some of the ideas from what I said here.
