Sometimes I feel like the cicada above.
Not only have I been stuck underground for years.
Not only have I had to dig myself free from my living grave.
Not only have I crawled from the dirt to a place as high as I could manage, to get the lay of the land, to see what’s changed in all this time, and oh my lord does that bird look hungry.
But now I have to spend hours cutting myself free from MY OWN SKIN!
I’ve spent all this time waiting and my new life has yet to begin and, until it does, I don’t really know who I am.
But sometimes I feel like the cicada above.
The moon is shining full on the ground and everything is crisp with detail.
The air tastes so much sweeter for being contrasted with the dirt.
My muscles are eager to be used, to be drawn tight, to work themselves into exhaustion and everyone around me seems a friend or at least not an enemy.
I am cut free from who I was or, if not, I know that I could be, that I could start fresh, that I could redefine who I am and who I want to be.
My new life hasn’t yet begun, and this teetering on the brink intoxicates me with possibility.