There is so much pressure with a fresh page. The opportunity to create from scratch, to pick up not where I left off but at the beginning. I feel on so many levels that I’ve been reduced to a trembling puddle of goo, nearly unrecognizable from myself. Like a caterpillar who disintegrates inside the chrysalis. Do they fearlessly give into their instinct to perform this act or is it their death they succumb to? Either way they emerge with wings.
I’m either dying or growing wings.
I’m shrouded, limp, crumbling, giving up giving in and allowing what is.
I’m liberated from the ego that has nothing here to prove.