Chrysalis

A caterpillar has no knowledge that it will become a butterfly...

That's one of the reasons, in fact, it is a caterpillar.

Blind to its own potential, the caterpillar crawls forward using what little vision it has. 

The eyes of a caterpillar only function well enough to see if there is light in front of it, or dark.

This vision is just enough to keep the caterpillar crawling forward, driven by the ancient instinct for survival; an unwritten book that is being remembered.

A caterpillar spends the majority of its lifetime eating, and mulching.

As we move through life in a caterpillar like form, we have a tendency to polarize things. Things are either good or bad, right or wrong. We refuse to see the gray matter, and we crawl determinedly and sometimes desperately towards anything that gives us sustenance.

But the process of transformation transcends one of simply taking in what is good for us.

Slowly, the layers begin to shed. The person we thought we once were begins to come undone, and underneath, a newer, fresher self resides.

During the process of mulching, the self is especially vulnerable.

Before the new exoskeleton has a chance to harden, any small disruption could cost the caterpillar its life. Due to its skin being softer, there is a less defined boundary between the caterpillar and the external world.

Yet, slowly; surely, the invisible script that seems to be laid out begins to take tangible form. 

We find that though its exoskeletons were mulched, the caterpillar never really changed at all.

Instead, it becomes a clearer, more refined version, of its former self. 

As time goes on, we see that nothing is really lost in the process of change. Nothing is lost, but illusion.

The caterpillar begins to settle, building around itself, gathering upon itself, curling into a ball.

From outside, it seems as though death is imminent.

And in a certain sense, it is.

Walls build up around the caterpillar; soft at first, then impenetrable. Nothing is allowed in this sacred coffin that the caterpillar has built for itself. Only light can penetrate the translucent sarcophagus made of remnants of its former self.

It crawls in, curls up, and prepares to fade into oblivion. It seems as though death will claim it.

A caterpillar willingly goes towards its own destruction; and this is ultimately what shapes a caterpillar into the butterfly it always was.

A soup begins to form around the dying form of its own skin, dissolving every cell in its body.

Everything the caterpillar knew is gone, forever.

But it is no longer alive; not in a traditional sense.

I like to think to myself that the caterpillar dissolves in its own tears as it grieves its old life, though there is no real way to prove this is true.