Natalie Tyler Cocoon

Spinning and weaving … encasing to insulate, to conceal and protect from all that does not matter, all that is unnecessary.

Hovering within a hum beneath a woven intricacy of intertwine that’s impervious to the glittering stars and gleaming sun, and firing slings and arrows. Every minute motion and echoing pin drop stirs a primeval instinct as that in the startled doe intent on protecting her fawn. An invisible crescendo of peaks of pain curbs all emotion, as if the air layered in the taut complexity of building pressure suspends every fragment within a vibrational pulse of extreme. Its strength sustains and supports; crumbling is not an option.

The moment is now and all focus is on being attentive without thinking or interference from influences that do not matter. The envelope of silk shields the buzz of a shifting world.

Time stops and has no meaning or measure, senses implode. An embrace sends a million receptors to revelry and the depth of need can break a whisper … a kiss of brushed cheeks … firecrackers of gasping breath. Yesterday lingers in the game of yesteryear where names are lost and words play hide and seek.

And yet time passes in a place of no time to allow an emergence to begin. A slow release at first to adjust to the stark bright, then a battle to ward off a humidity that feeds as a hungry hyena. The startled doe must stand her ground in the grumbles of aftershocks. Tentative steps, quivering …

Emotions of pressure barricaded within a shackled heart trickle as tears. New insights of pinks, blues and yellows, a wafting spritz of Sanpelligrino fizz. Birds and bees, buzzing and busy … multiplying and amplifying as a philharmonic orchestra tuning to perform a new symphony.

The importance of yesterday stays as was, perhaps as a nonimportance. Today is new, birthed as the chrysalis from its cocoon. Life sharpens as though viewed through the lens of a pristine Alpine lake, trimmed in an effervescence of ochre, magenta and indigo.

Time to ensconce is always, a space for morphing and transforming even without inclination to morph and transform, for quiet contemplation upon a reality of singular objective. To focus.

Accept it as a precious gift of strength where life can never be the same. Nor should it be.

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