The Chrysalis

There’s a place between forest and fever dream where few dare go. Where the ground hums basslines. Where the rivers run thick with blackberry lemonade, spiked with starlight.

I wander there at night, practicing for a stage I haven't yet touched. Tendrils of smoke curl gently around me, contorting to mirror my body’s curves. My hands move unbidden, as if conducting the gentle breeze rustling through the trees. 

As the silence stretches on, I gather myself. I close my eyes. I empty my lungs.

The shadows lean in with glee. The trees cock their heads, bark splitting and slashed with grins. The cat in the corner watches haughtily, unimpressed. The forest stills. 

All are waiting for me to open my mouth.

I wink at the moon, toss a peach in the air, and dare gravity to keep up.

The peach lands back in my palm. 

Then sound slips from my mouth like a stone skating across a frozen pond. 

When I sing here, there’s no audience but those already mentioned. No applause, save for the soft rustle of leaves. No spotlight but the moon. No cheers, only meows.

This is the stage before the stage. 

This is the chrysalis, where voice and rhythm are tempered and honed in silence. 

There’s no performance. Only breath, pulse, marrow.

One day, the world will hear me through speakers. 

But first, the forest must approve. 

So far, the forest is grinning.

With love from the forest,

~ Alexander