My car key somehow unlocked one of the keys to life.
They’re Painted Ladies.
Often mistaken for Monarchs.
And because of so much rain they’re proliferating.
But then this.
It takes three generations of butterflies to complete the migration.
No one butterfly ever experiences the whole trip?
Only the group consciousness experiences the whole trip.
Only we on the outside experience their whole trip?
They only experience the tripping.
The verb of it.
The many nows that become the migration.
And now I’m remembering my favorite butterfly fact.
I’d forgotten it.
After a caterpillar cocoons it dissolves into nothing before it becomes a butterfly.
Dissolves into like an amino soup of becomingness.
Before it can be a butterfly.
Its own migration.
That one the single being experiences fully.
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