Hell

What if I am an eternal caterpillar?  Always in transition. Always changing into something else. Never able to get comfortable in my own skin? Spending all eternity crawling around in a bipolar state of awe and terror?

A caterpillar whose life begins and ends high above the ground whether he is climbing, or flying, so that  I can see the rest of the world, observe it, ponder it in relative safety and comfort, internally, if not as a real member.

That might be one definition of hell. Living life in a bell jar of time and space that allows me to observe what cannot be touched or heard clearly. Having a relatively clear understanding of everything except myself. Hearing the murmurings from beyond the glass without being able to quite decipher the sound or the fury of other beings.

It might be a relief to finally be caught and pinned to some random board where I am identified, tagged and placed in a drawer with others of my ilk.

At least I would know, or think, that I finally knew, what I was.