My Cocoon

(Bleh. F*ck the subline.)

Ideas, like butterflies, come to me easily. Instant-access to conceptual thought, I enter the blank space with confidence, ready to plan constructs, and define clusters with the potential to be everything and do everything.
As the commander of thought, I give order and purpose. 
I keep a garden well, with designated spaces for potentially beautiful flowers.

Creative execution, like the life cycle of a butterfly or that of a beautiful flower, keeps becoming harder and harder for me to engage in.

The process of creating has become inhibited for me — by me. 
From larva to imago, the way from hatching to chrysalis has become counter-intuitive. As though my metaphorical larvae have been infected with neurologically manipulative mites, that are causing disorientation, distraction, recursive questioning, and in consequence: postponed transformation.

As the person in charge of execution, I keep getting scared to emerge. My instincts are not cooperating.
Sometimes, the cocoon becomes too thick to break through.
Sometimes, I won’t start to spin at all, to not have to go through the exhausting process.
I am actively hindering, yet yearning for chrysalis.

To change metaphors — How does the flower do it?
What makes the seed explode into life and unfold a macro organism from a micro containment?

I am not a person of faith, but of gardening enthusiasm. So I don’t believe god has anything to do with making flowers bloom or helping (nor hindering) my creative challenges to come to execution. 
Yet, I’m guilty of believing in the mythological “muse”, the “talent” instead of the refined skill, the genius creator of something unachievable.
These geniuses, of course, are measured by their world-wide success, their flawless appearances, their promising youth and lightness.

As a gardener, I know it’s all a gamble. You set the stage, add necessary factors, consider some variables and some time later your plant will either thrive or not. My green thumb is based on intuition as well as experience.
I know I can replace a plant that won’t thrive. Try again and invest in a different seedling.

So, I know, that experience comes with repetition and variation. Trial and error. Yet, the cocoon feels like a prison I spin for myself that I can only fail in. The physical butterfly will never be as pretty as my idea of it.

The narrative is this: My seedling has to be protected, because my soil is shit, my water is poisoned and the world is not ready for it. It’s so unique, my magic plant, I don’t wanna kill it. If only I had help in growing this plant. A different set of hands who know better… Ah! The agony in this failed logic!

I’m not talking about my jobs. My jobs are fine. They lead a bug’s life. They’re busy bees, steady ants, sometimes maybe just a mayfly.
They’re not my favorite plants, but I know how to handle them.

My creative actualization though, is not fine. It’s trapped in a cocoon that has forgotten what’s inside. Is it a butterfly or a flower? Is it a plethora of figurative metaphors that won’t get me anywhere?

You betcha.

My cocoon, I keep spinning you around…