(Voice of a butterfly, newly emerged)
Mm. I looked ugly before.
But now—
I have wings.
These small wings…
I felt the wind.
I don't know how I knew—
but I spread them.
The air washed over me.
It felt like freedom.
Before that—
I was born from an egg,
a green thing,
wriggling and spinning
under leaves.
Monsters everywhere.
Four-legged ones.
One with a long tongue and a slither.
Another with a tongue that jumps.
And the big ones—wings, claws, beaks.
They all saw me as food.
So I hid.
Behind green.
In shadows.
And my instinct screamed:
Eat. Eat. Eat green. Eat greeny.
So I did.
I grew.
Became big and soft and green.
Then—
a feeling: build.
A shelter.
Why?
I don't know.
But I climbed high.
Spit turned to silk.
I wrapped myself.
Hardened.
Slept.
Slept.
Slept.
Then—light.
Change.
I opened.
Looked.
Blue wings.
Shining in sun.
But… my mouth?
My teeth?
Gone.
Only this straw-mouth.
Instinct says:
Go to flowers. Drink sweet.
And I flew.
I flew!
Fast, free, beautiful.
Then instinct screamed again:
Mate. Find mate. Mate now.
I paused.
Is this freedom?
Is this beauty?
Or just another kind of cage?
Do I really have freedom?