The Wait

It's getting harder to breathe. The air is stagnant; stale and smelly. And it's dark. My arms are pressed up against my body and a slick mucous-like membrane bounds them together. The walls around me skim the surface of my skin. It's tight. I can't move.

I hate it in here.

I try to turn my head, but I can't. I'm hoping that by doing so, I can create a tear in the white film that surrounds me; and maybe gain a better perspective on the situation. But I can't. The resistance from the membrane is too strong. For now, I am left staring at the milky sinews that are the only layer between myself and the crusty dark wall.

Since I have nothing else to occupy me, I'm left alone with my thoughts. The darkness doesn't help with the creative process; but somehow -- left with no other alternative; it's all that I can do. I wonder how much better I'll be once I get out of here? When my wings are fully formed and I can take flight.

My back aches from the metamorphosis. For the last few days, my shoulders have been expanding to accommodate new joints that are forming along my spine; where my wings will eventually grow. They hunch forward, trying to maximize what little space I have in this cocoon. The awkwardness causes my head to tilt on one angle, and I'm able to create a small tear in the wall of the sticky membrane that surrounds me. I can see the inside wall a bit more clearly. It's brown; crustaceous, and moldy.

I want out.

I try my best to rock back and forth. This transformation is taking too long. It's too uncomfortable. I don't like it. I maneuver one of my hips as best I can to allow for more momentum; but I don't have enough strength in my torso to complete the task.

I'm not ready yet.

It's probably just as well. Who knows what bird might be sitting on a perch, waiting for me to poke my head through the wall. Without wings; I have no chance of survival.

So, as stinky and awkward as this feels at the moment; I have no choice but to endure this temporary confinement. And, no matter how painful or lonely or tedious it becomes; I must wait. To launch too soon is certain death. And, since I've come this far; I might as well wait until I can spread my wings and soar.

That is, if I ever do get out of here...