Monday, March 16, 2009


The Catepillar used to lie. He used to lie supine along the leaves ribs. He watches the birds pack up their things and travel, just travel away. He conversed with the sky, and told the clouds stories of his larva hood growing up in the sunken log beneath the forest canopy. Of his first unconventional love to a bee larva, and a young spidery seductress. He watched his siblings by the hundreds, shun the world for weeks at a time, and then return with utter majesty and soar to the sun. The catepillar told the clouds all these stories, and tried oh so hard to never shed a tear. "The sun will always rise" he used to tell himself, and each day will begin anew. The catepillar was getting on in age, and thought to himself, that he couldn't bare to leave the leaves and flutter away, he had seen all he could ever want of the world from his canopy top temple. One rainy summer evening, he said his joys and made peace with his sorrows, and in a blissful nirvana, lept outward, catching a lone raindrop which he carried to the wonderous abyss. The catepillar is the sky.

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