Metamorphosis

Sometimes, when the rain is pelting the cement like a thousand BB guns, I hide away in the dark cocoon-like shelter of my woolen blankets, shrouded in gloom, burrowing deep down into the center of my layers upon layers of hot, textured fabric until I reach that state of metamorphosis, that crystallizing moment when the feverish intensity of my burning, chafing skin combines with my quickening heart so stifled by stale air and the rain rat-tat-tatting louder and louder until the perfect storm, that blustery cliché, compels me to burst forth from my chrysalis with a wild, raw fervor, casting aside all the layers upon layers I have shed, and dash out into the icy evening showers with arms flung wide, gulping the fresh, wet air like it’s the last breath I’ll ever take, and laugh with the madness of being alive.

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