Tight. Suffocating. Is birth always this... difficult? Drawn out into the air that burns the lungs, coughing up the comforts of formation. The time spent still in short, in a sprinting minute, I begin crawling. There is no choice. Searching for safety and stability, a sturdy crack to crawl into, or a leaf that will not shake too viciously. I hold on with all the strength a small body can muster. I spend the days hiding and crawling from then on. I remain hungry for something. But never knowing what. I consume everything in my path, in hopes to fulfill an unidentified desire. Time has passed now. I am grown. I remain incredibly hungry, but also plagued by an ominous lethargy. The heights seem difficult now, the food not worth it. The days are passing, but I have found nothing worth the effort to move forward for. With nothing left to crawl for, I simply stop. I curl myself up, what else is one to do at the end. In my sleep, I dream. I dream my body is pulling apart around me, there is so much pain. But, so too are there colours I have never seen before. Though the space is small, there are parts of me I never knew could stretch as far as they do. Soft and supple. When was I this soft last, when last did I dream of colours wrapping the world? Are these dreams? Of an egg case yet to hatch? I am dreaming of a dream, I dreamed in the very beginning. In the silent turbulence. I am forming the chrysallis of future once more. No more crawling through the days for hunger without reason. Floating in tranquil waters of womb of my own making, the world looks wide. Painful. Beautiful. I will live to see these colours, and for the first time. This is my choice.