life in cycle

fhae

'life in cycle' traces the quiet inevitability of existence through the metamorphosis of a butterfly — from birth to death, from stillness to motion, from knowing nothing to knowing too much.

It begins inside ‘the egg’ — calm, unaware, enclosed. The world is small, safe, and unformed. Then it cracks open, and everything expands. The creature begins to move, to eat, to exist. It experiences the bliss of early life, ignorant yet full of wonder.

But change comes. It feels it deep within itself: an ache to grow, to evolve, to become something else. Fear and solitude take hold. It builds a shell around itself, a cocoon, a home — a space to dissolve, to rebuild, to wait. Inside the cocoon there is warmth, uncertainty, comfort. It is safe, suspended in transformation.

Emerging feels like being reborn. The air is different, sharper, wider. The butterfly has wings now but they are fragile and wet, waiting to harden. Patience becomes strength. And when it is finally strong enough to fly the sky feels infinite. It is not alone anymore for the air is filled with others — butterflies, dragonflies, bees, birds, planes — all moving through the same air.

When it finds another, it’s not clear whether it’s love, lust, or simply instinct. The connection is erratic, chaotic, beautiful — creation through collision. Eggs are laid, and new life begins. But then comes the question: what now?

The butterfly isn’t ready to die. Its life has felt fleeting — a blur of growing, changing, connecting. Its wings weaken, its body slows, yet memory and awareness linger. It resists the inevitable, stubbornly holding onto the world it’s only just begun to understand.

And then, it surrenders. The drone overtakes it, soft and endless. Death arrives not as an enemy, but as a completion. Because at least it lived. At least it loved. 

'life in cycle' traces the quiet inevitability of existence through the metamorphosis of a butterfly — from birth to death, from stillness to motion, from knowing nothing to knowing too much.
It begins inside ‘the egg’ — calm, unaware, enclosed. The world is small, safe, and unformed. Then it cracks open, and everything expands. The creature begins to move, to eat, to exist. It experiences the bliss of early life, ignorant yet full of wonder.
But change comes. It feels it deep within itself: an ache to grow, to evolve, to become something else. Fear and solitude take hold. It builds a shell around itself, a cocoon, a home — a space to dissolve, to rebuild, to wait. Inside the cocoon there is warmth, uncertainty, comfort. It is safe, suspended in transformation.
Emerging feels like being reborn. The air is different, sharper, wider. The butterfly has wings now but they are fragile and wet, waiting to harden. Patience becomes strength. And when it is finally strong enough to fly the sky feels infinite. It is not alone anymore for the air is filled with others — butterflies, dragonflies, bees, birds, planes — all moving through the same air.
When it finds another, it’s not clear whether it’s love, lust, or simply instinct. The connection is erratic, chaotic, beautiful — creation through collision. Eggs are laid, and new life begins. But then comes the question: what now?
The butterfly isn’t ready to die. Its life has felt fleeting — a blur of growing, changing, connecting. Its wings weaken, its body slows, yet memory and awareness linger. It resists the inevitable, stubbornly holding onto the world it’s only just begun to understand.
And then, it surrenders. The drone overtakes it, soft and endless. Death arrives not as an enemy, but as a completion. Because at least it lived. At least it loved.

caterpillar (Original Mix)