A Collection of Short Stories and Poems

The Silk and Moth Paradox

I sometimes find that I feel like I'm drifting through a limbo of emotional detachment. It's empty here in limbo. People come and go often, winter being the time when masses of them come in. Perhaps this is comparable to the caterpillar and the moth: you move around, eating whatever your tiny brain tells you that you should, you try not to get eaten by other things in nature that tell them they should eat you, and then you wrap yourself up in silk not knowing exactly where that will get you. You just do it because your brain tells you it's the correct thing to do. Most people are able to bloom from that confusion of instinct and silk. They get out, explore what they've been missing while tangled in their growth, and grow into the beautiful creature decorated in paper wings. What does that make me, then? Am I lagging behind all of the others? Am I failing all of the expectations just because I find comfort and solace in the hug of silk around my body? Is it so ridiculous to want to be hugged by something I've created?

Perhaps the answer to that can be found in what I've already said. Maybe I'm just stuck -- too stubborn to want to move from where I've created routine and comfort in being stuck. I've heard it's alright to get stuck sometimes, but I don't remember a time in which I've not been stuck in the same place, in the same moods, in the same swirl of silk. Is that sad? I'm just so tired. Tired of always being the same sad person I've always been. I try so hard not to be, really. I'll let a joke slip thinking everybody laughs in understanding only to be met with concerned and terrified grimaces. I let myself slip out too much when I'm not thinking about who I am. I've lost who I really am. In fact, the last time I can actually remember a memory created in pure joy is when society hadn't wrapped its hands around my lungs yet. I'm holding onto those memories so desperately, but I've not been that little kid in so long that I'm only reaching for ghosts of what once was. Is that sad?

I want so badly to change. I linger on dreams of becoming happier, but I always seem to go back to "if I do this, I'll be me again". I know I'll never be that little kid again: my brain has been an adult for longer than my body has and it's so tired. Is that sad? When did I get so exhausted? When did this caterpiller become such a mess of soupy thoughts trapped in a puny human brain? When did I get so caught up in going back that I've never truly moved on?

*** An important note: these entries are going from most recent toward my first entry. You may find that they are growing to form the same theme, and that is melancholy or sadness in general. I was really sad at the beginning of 2019, and that because I'd lost a lot while so much was happening around me. I felt stuck. However, I'm not sad like that anymore. I've found a happy place through some things and lots of people. I'm doing better. I just thought I should point this out, to show you that things do change and it really does get better. Be a caterpiller, let the silk hold you, but grow into something stunning. It's okay if it takes longer than others. You're not like others; it's different for everyone. Please take care of yourself. <3 ****