Why do most of us live in the caterpillar state when we are meant to be butterflies?  We are oppressors to our own mind—victims, reliving the same story in our minds over and over.  Events we can’t control, whether past or future.  Maybe. Yes, we like to feel sorry for ourselves to gain empathy or sympathy.  Playing victim hasn’t worked, so why do we continue to do so?  Tell me, mother; tell me, father? Fear is a lie; love is real.  Yet, we continue to reject what is real, what we deserve, what is ours, and it has been in our face again and again, every day, and when we realize it, it’s too late.  Sometimes.

 

Why do we decide to live when we are near death?  Why do we believe money will make us happier when happiness was next to us; inside me; inside you.  Depression we create.  Trapped in our own minds, suppressed once more.  Because, the first time I was hit, I stayed there.  The first time I was called a name by someone I loved, I believed it.  Then, when loved kissed me in the face, I rejected it.  Another failed attempt that was turned into another excuse to pile onto my fictitious life.  Fist in one’s household was ruled by iron.  A cliché to hold onto.  Another reason to stay in that repetitious caterpillar state.

 

“I’ll start tomorrow,” you say.

“One day,” you say.

“Not the right time,” you say.

 

Let me clip my own wings inch by inch.  Maybe. Just maybe, until maybe fades away because it’s no longer a word, no meaning behind it.

 

“Another day,” you say.

 

Another day until there are no more days left, and we both run out of time.