You can't pull a butterfly out of its cocoon too early.
I want to write.
If you pull a butterfly out of its cocoon too soon it won't be able to fly
I'm over the worst of the burnout, I'm almost there. I'm ready.
The struggle is what fills the butterfly's wings with blood. If you free it before it's ready, it'll never be able to fly.
I want to write, damnit. I feel the itch.
Picking at a scab only tears the wound open again.
I ache for the words. Not the easy ones that pay my bills, the hard ones that challenge me.
Soon.
Why not now?
Because the struggle fills the butterfly's wings with blood. You are struggling with the desire to write.
Your metaphor is breaking down.
Do you remember why we originally started writing again?
Because after a decade and a half of not I was going to scream if we didn't start again. The words erupted like a volcano. I didn't need to struggle then, I fucking flew.
Careful, Icarus.
Don't you mythologize at me. We flew. Sure we got burned but it was worth the flight.
Why was it worth the flight?
Because We needed to write. We were starving for it. We couldn't not.
The struggle fills the butterfly's wings with blood. Your need is not yet great enough. We aren't ready.
How can you be sure of that?
Because you wrote this instead of words.
...well damn.
Yeah.
When then?
When the words are ready to erupt like a volcano. When the pressure has built up again. It doesn't need to be a decade and a half. But you haven't filled your wings with blood.
I want to fly.
Then dream of flight. Read books that fill you with that craving. Watch shows that rend your heart so you crave to rend others. Live. Experience. Feel. Fill your wings. Stretch them as you break free of the ash of the man you used to be. Then you will be ready.
What if I don't heal?
You already are.
How can you be sure of that?
Because you wrote this instead of tears.
...well damn.
Yeah.
Put that book back on then. This cocoon is getting too cramped.
