The feeling has grown.

And with it, my body.

I’m so small.

I may have forgotten a lot, but not the memory of my previous shell. Not entirely.

It was my lens to the world, once upon a time. My self was molded and cultivated on that cluster of organs, flesh and blood. I may have departed from it for an eternity and more, but I will always have its imprint on my shape. On my narrative.

And it tells me that I am so tiny.

My head is almost a dot. Dwarfed by the rest of my body, it’s barely anything more than a mandible and a pair of eyes. There are tiny holes beside my mouth which I haven’t figured out yet.

And that is it.

My thorax and abdomen are extensive. They carry small legs—hardly more than stumps that wiggle lazily—and segments like the bellows of a straw. I am covered in long hairs that rest placidly in the serum of my egg.

And that is it.

So simple. So straightforward.

Ridiculous in comparison to my human past.

The myriad of systems working in tandem to keep me functioning.

The insides. Pulsing and fluctuating incessantly.

The muscles. Rippling in careful harmony.

My brain. The fuel to my self.

Do I even have a brain, now? Is there anything but hormones and physiological reactions behind this plain grub?

It does not matter.

I am still me.

I can feel.

The days where I needed a physical shape to exist are but a distant fable.

I can sense it coming.

The hatching.

The freedom from my cage.

I will see the world again.

I will experience life again.

I will die again.

I must take this chance.

To breathe, even if just for a second.

To feel, even if only the barest of breeze.

I have to make it last.

At least until I remember.

Anything. Everything.

And the next time, I swear.

I won’t forget.