Caterpillars
By HeidiElina
- 329 reads
Now this may all sound very silly, but I promise that if you were to walk down the road, stretch out your hand and let your palm trail behind you pressed against the hedge you usually ignore, you’d understand. The if is big (an international forum of a skyscraper), it needs to swallow up and overcome the usual cycling – running – next-place-now frenzy of the everyday that pushes towards the tomorrow, the if is a giant that picks you up out of the swirl of a slushie machine droning day by day and places you in the midst of time and life and you, with your palm trailing behind in the hedge that yesterday was just inanimate scenery.
You’d feel the spike the smooth the needle the fur, at first only consumed by the dance of neurons within you hands, like your world was breaking through into something new. Then, like a baby consumed with curiosity at its toes slowly beginning to realise the world around begging to be noticed, you break away from the simple pleasure of the spike the smooth the needle the fur and what is to follow will sound silly no longer, because that hedge – that squish of sound into a syllable – because it – it - .
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Once upon a time, in a hedge much like any other, there lived three tribes of caterpillars. Tribe is a tricky word – weighed with the days when people came and pointed at others and labelled them. Those days, of course, have passed. These days the labels are those we place in our own heads, and, if we’re not careful, we paste them on others. But enough about tribes. This story is a story about caterpillars.
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