Ayo come get your Howdy soup while it’s…uncomfortably warm and acidic

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What does “metamorphosis” mean to you?

Short answer is rebirth. To be born again.

But I also have a long answer because I really liked this ask:

If I say "tree", we both know what "tree" means, but we see different trees in our minds, right? I love the idea that language is the common ground of understanding. That's why it has rules: it's a convention. Otherwise, we won't understand each other. You say dog, I think tree and answer: soup!, and you bring me a flower. Imagine.

That makes me think of Saussure, who defined a sign as being composed of a signifier (significant) — the form which the sign takes; and the signified (signifi ) — the concept it represents.

But anyway, this was a very long time ago, and it's a crazy subject to do in-depth, I just want to use this idea of two layers: physical (material, visible) x abstract (spiritual, invisible).

So my brief interest in etymology and Latin will tell me the word metamorphosis is composed by the very cool word meta (change) + morpho (form).

To be transfigured? To be changed? But at what levels?

Rebirth fits. It sounds very poetic. It's the old "the caterpillar has to die in order to become a butterfly". But honestly, I think we take this meaning too lightly. In the sense that we might want to change a sign, but we change only its form, and forget its concept — which might be immutable as well. In order for the metamorphosis to happen, I guess both must be changed. It's an all-in game.

If you smash a caterpillar, it will never become a butterfly. If you take a butterfly's wings, it will still be a butterfly. And if we verify the reality that brings the words to life,

"Once a caterpillar has disintegrated all of its tissues except for the imaginal discs, those discs use the protein-rich soup all around them to fuel the rapid cell division required to form the wings, antennae, legs, eyes, genitals and all the other features of an adult butterfly or moth. The imaginal disc for a fruit fly's wing, for example, might begin with only 50 cells and increase to more than 50,000 cells by the end of metamorphosis. Depending on the species, certain caterpillar muscles and sections of the nervous system are largely preserved in the adult butterfly. One study even suggests that moths remember what they learned in later stages of their lives as caterpillars." (Ferris Jabr)

Interesting to point that "imaginal discs" or "sections of the nervous system" will be preserved. In the sense that you can't have something coming out of nothing, ever! A fish can not go through a caterpillar's metamorphosis. So even to disintegrate and be fully transformed, we also need a solid basis.

Sometimes we want to be changed, but we don't want to digest ourselves like the brave caterpillar. We want beautiful wings, but we don't want to die for ourselves. Refusing nature's design that is intrinsic to our core, maybe we will die as silkworms, when we could have been brilliant butterflies.

Bite

*He wrote this*

The need to scratch an itch can be overwhelmingly perverse. An itch invites a reaction to scratch, and can be the symptom of; toxins, parasites, insect bites, an infection, etc. Whether localized or generalized, the itching sensation more often than not, is nothing to be concerned about.

Except for when it is.

An itch can be either literal or psychosomatic. Seeds embed themselves into our minds, and sprout into a need, it’s roots tickling our brains, dictating a response. The need to scratch it to oblivion consumes us. This authoritative urge to scratch; to alleviate, becomes top priority.

These words perhaps, sowed such an intrusive seed into your mind. If so, did you scratch it? Did I plant a subliminal seed, dictating a scratching response? Itches are prone to sprout at any moment without hesitation. Just writing this alone makes me itchy. I’ve felt an itch on my scalp, the back of my neck, my thigh, as well as my ear. Our bodies, both inside and out, are canvases for trickery.

You know...there was a woman (perhaps she still lives, perhaps not) who’s need to scratch transcended that of most. The seed embedded into her mind sprouted into an itch so intense, that she couldn’t resist the need to tear it out by its roots. She scratched throughout the day and also during the night while asleep, overtime, scratching away a patch of hair. Searching feverishly for the itch’s roots, she worked diligently, until finally scratching through her scalp, her skull, and finally into her brain.

Have you ever had an itch your couldn’t scratch? An itch out of reach?

I empathize with this woman, as I have a similar itch. Whether or not it's real, eludes me. All I know is that it’s there, within my mind. It’s roots digging into the very fibers which make my brain. It was conceived from a bug bite. Whether or not this bug is real also eludes me. This insect is often referred to as a travel bug.

But, what exactly is a travel bug? I imagine it being what’s concealed within a cocoon during mid-transition from a caterpillar to a butterfly. The cocoon acts as a stomach, as the caterpillar digests itself, destroying its own tissue, turning itself into a protein rich cell soup. Caterpillars which don’t fully transition are stuck in soup limbo. They’ve yet to reach their destination themselves. Thus, becoming travel bugs. Infecting all they happen to “bite” with their own unrealized potential. How did cell soup bite me? I can not be certain. Where is the bite mark? Well… it’s in my mind. It stands to reason that travel bugs enter our bodies, the likely way being through ingestion. Perhaps they slip themselves into the food we eat, or slide into our gaping mouths as we lie asleep. Their cells travel through our blood stream, up to our brains where it “bites”, sowing a seed. Infecting us with our own itch to transition. To travel. To realize our potential.

Or not.

Perhaps travel bugs enter us through visual stimuli. You reader, have unbeknownst allowed me access into your mind.

Bite.

Are you scratching yet?

One may end up scratching straight through their scalp, skull, and into their brain. Intent on pulling the sprouting seed out by its roots.

I don’t want to scratch into my brain. I fear what lurks there. I’d rather keep it concealed. I’m afraid that my brain is its own sort of cell soup, my skull a stomach-like cocoon. I’ve yet to fully develop.

*I will travel alongside him. We’ll scratch this itch together. Tear it out by its roots!*