I haven't written anything much since one poem on 9/11. Well, I've written tons of sentences down for later. I email myself in the middle of the night. And during the day. I leave digital post-its on my office computer, notes jammed in my purse. If I carried a Sharpie, I'd have words written on myself most days. But I think I've been in a month-long larval stage myself (only without the icky squirming thing with too many legs, or with none at all).
I know I'm no butterfly. Those days are behind me I think. Maybe I'm more luna moth, those things go through so many stages of being, it's amazing. Of course, they're much faster at it than I am, but they do a lot of waiting to become. I feel something like that, like there's so many stages to life, and I'll never truly be "done" anyway. I mean, the adult luna moth lives only one week, and doesn't eat (doesn't even have a mouth!). It reproduces and dies. So here's where that metaphor dies too, heh. I hope to at least get to fly awhile longer than a week.
And I'm getting closer, I'm figuring things out. I've been reading so much my eyes hurt. And I've done a couple of websites for other people too (my husband's latest musical project for one). I think now I need to find a nice leafy spot to chill out, to take some extreme quiet time in a cocoon of my own. I know there's a project for me on the other side of this, and I can't wait to see what that becomes. Or, really, I guess I can wait. I guess that's the point.