When I was a child, I’d pretend to be a caterpillar. I’d imagine my blankets as my cocoon every night.
Every morning I’d wake up and hope to emerge and everything would come to a screeching halt. The light bulbs wouldn’t flicker, the voices wouldn’t ramble and the rain wouldn’t pitter-patter.
I’d be trapped in a dream that I fell in love with. Cocoons were so sweet and warm; they reminded me of the warmth of my grandmother’s tender hugs.
A new façade every time I reinvent myself, all because I simply need to feel as if my thought process, my words, my crumbling self-esteem was all renewed and I was a new man.
No matter how many times I break out of the cocoons. They are all still the same, the only thing that ever truly changes is the mask that I wear.
How many cocoons shall I create?
How many times will it take for me to realize that no matter how many times I crack through the cocoon? This is a false perfection I feel.
All I wanted was a dream.
To fall naïve victim to that childish wonder that is imagination.
I want to satisfy my insatiable hunger for nightmares, dreams will prosper if I do.
Arms stretched like wings and fist clinched tightly, I grasp the corners of blankets and I cocoon myself.
Hopeful that the next time I emerge, I won’t need another cocoon.