• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 04
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Transformation happens slowly and then all at once.
An incremental, painful process:
Wrapping yourself, the little imperfect worm that you are,
in all your potential, spinning a cocoon of hope and future promises,
Comforting yourself with dreams of open wings and cerulean sky.

Transformation is far from instant,
Though it may feel sudden to the outer world,
inwardly you sit, quiet, and still, for eons
Ensconced in the idea of change, trying on a new identity privately,
Then disclosing cautiously to your most sacred circle,
The ones who can see past damp wings and a tear-stained face,
They see the You you are moving towards
And offer a shoulder, a tissue, an encouraging word,
Change is hard and the world can feel cruel
“Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

You dry your wings in the sunshine for what feels like ever,
They become lighter and you become unrecognizable.
The only constant is change.
Onward, upward, into the next dimension,
Take flight and look back
Remember all the past versions of you
The ones that no longer exist