The alchemy of wings
There are ideas, sounds, images, dizziness that just want to live. They bubble, chirp, are rude. My head is noisy.
A few days ago, during this week, when I did not stop working, due to a client’s emergency, I focused on a report about butterflies. This was a long-winged break in my mind. This insect fascinates us all the more because it is threatened in several regions of this planet. It is the preferred symbol for women who like to have it tattooed to mark an important stage of transformation in their lives; they love butterflies, not so much for the delicacy of their wings as for what they represent.
To transform itself, the caterpillar locks itself in, becomes, in its cocoon, a real soup. There is nothing left of it, but a magma of vibrating cells which, through the military ordering of their destiny, are transformed into a being ready to fly away. Discreet Phoenix, the butterfly sometimes travels thousands of kilometers to follow its food or reproduce.
When I observe, through the eyes of the reports, both the beauty of the world and the acts vomited by humanity against it, when I conclude that all this is part of what the universe is up to, since it is letting it happen for the moment, when I look at what surrounds me, that everything seems so calm, in place, and yet so incomprehensible, when my ear is reaching out, and that no god comes to speak, I tell myself that something will inevitably happen. Unless it’s, after all, my haughty imagination that thinks it’s Cassandra or Napoleon.
There are ideas, sounds, images, vertigo in a volcano. I’m bubbling, chirping, stay polite. My head is noisy, the cave of my thoughts is vast. Am I a caterpillar? Am I in alchemy?
