After an eternity of seeking, the sudden threshold of seeing leaves one filled with a strange paradox of ecstasy and grief.
I was born to see. How strange that a part of the self then grieves for blindness? However, this too shall pass.
For what is it to be blind, but to find safety in the darkness and to become the spouse of habit whose name is Ignorance? We chase the carrot but find its taste bittersweet. Facing our greatness seems to be harder than facing our smallness.
So accustomed have we become to the tight fit of our clothes, that nakedness frightens us and takes getting used to. So for now, I will adjust to the feel of my skin naked against the elements and free of confines.
Certainly, a part of the grief is the isolation of seeing in a world of blindness. There is a pain to seeing many butterflies trapped in their cocoons and necessary respect for the caterpillar.
To be a butterfly is neither a desire, nor a sought after role, but it is simply to be true to one’s inherent nature. The caterpillar only remains a caterpillar, when it has forgotten its butterfly self and resists its natural growth.
Have courage dear butterfly, your wings may be fragile, but they will take you home.