Butterfly not

How long does it take for the caterpillar to change into a butterfly? A few days? A few weeks? A few months, perhaps?

Well in the case of this blog, and of my whole reality into fiction interpretation of one's self, a few months seems just about right. Like many bloggers lost in cyberspace, I lost my train of thought for a few months and unshamelessly abandonned Suspended Bridges for a while. We had a horribly long winter here in Ottawa, life got hectic, and I Facebooked instead of blogspotting. I didn't run out of things to say; just the opposite. I might have temporarily lost interest in my own self-observation and things were unfolding at such a pace that I couldn't even keep up with myself, so, ummm...I bailed.

Too many things went on. Couldn't keep up.

Butterfly reference. Oh yeah. I really don't want to give into that whole butterfly / metaphorical lyricism / transformation crap into much detail, because I can't be arsed to go into a symbolic analysis of the weird things that pop into my head - that's my therapist's job, thank you very much - but I will still mention it since that's the image that popped into my head as I'm slowly emerging from a writing coma. And at the risk of sounding tacky and/or very cliché, I do feel different than I did 5 months ago - caterpillar managed not to get squished after all - and I won't go as far as saying I'm ready to open up my wings and fly - fly, damn butterfly, fly - BUT I will say this :

It feels damn good to be out of that fucking chrysalid. T'was getting crowded in there.