It is the butterfly I think of when transformation hits my mind. The dazzling butterfly with its colorful wings, the sky as its canvas. But I wonder, what does the cocoon think about. How does it feel, as it remains inside itself, closed from the world, waiting for the breaking point of transformation. Does it feel the fang of impatience grow inside as it waits to see a new world? Does it cry itself to sleep because the wait has become too hard? or does it cherish each moment as it becomes more of itself? Perhaps, it has already transformed deep inside, before being visible to any other eye.
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