Foreward 1:
[seed]“Bug House” was a song I created
and later destroyed in a fit of rage. The only way I can describe the
song is that it sounded like Syndisia,
but that too was destroyed forever. They were both great songs,
though Syndisia
sounded better—crisper, more intentional. Bug
House had a kind of atmospheric
mood that felt like something you’d hear while floating
half-conscious in the backseat of a car driving through an endless
tunnel. The air thick with static, promises of meaning just out of
reach. If I had to compare it, maybe Gila
by Beach House comes close, but even that feels too polished[/seed]
Bug House was messy—raw in the way forgotten memories
are: fragmented but powerful. It felt like finding an old photograph
of someone you might’ve loved but can’t quite remember. The edges
of the melody blurred like water-soaked ink on a crumpled napkin
scrawled with a message I’ll never understand again. A soundtrack
for misremembered dreams.
I destroyed Bug House because it made me uncomfortable.
It knew too much, whispered secrets about things I thought
I’d buried long ago. Maybe that’s why some songs are better left
unheard, like phone calls from unknown numbers at 3 a.m. They linger
in the subconscious, unresolved, like a stubborn toothache or the
sensation of falling in a dream.
Creation and destruction—two sides of the same unstable coin. I
killed Bug House, but it never really left. Its ghost still
hums faintly when I’m alone, like a half-forgotten melody you can’t
place but can’t escape. Maybe that’s what songs are supposed to
do—haunt you, live on in the spaces between what was and
what could have been.
[Seed-melting[2-3]]Molting
is the act of shedding one’s shell—a process of leaving behind
what no longer fits. The scorpion doesn’t mourn its old armor; it
splits open, steps forward, and never looks back. It grows into
something stronger, something new. It survives.[/Seed-melting[2-3]]
I used to think shedding layers meant becoming vulnerable,
exposed. But the scorpion taught me that vulnerability isn’t
weakness—it’s transformation. The shell it leaves behind is a
monument to what it was, not what it is. It doesn’t
cling to old defenses; it abandons them to the past.
For a long time, I thought I was trapped inside my own
armor—sealed tight, unreachable. But when I stared into the
scorpion’s countless eyes, I saw something familiar. Cold and
sharp, but not cruel. Watchful, not passive. Its gaze felt like
recognition.
Then came the spider.
The spider doesn’t shed its skin the way the scorpion does. It
builds. It weaves its world from within, constructing intricate webs
that trap, connect, and consume. Its power lies in its design.
Unlike the scorpion, it never lets go of what it creates—it ties
everything back to itself, strand by strand.
For a while, I didn’t know which one I was. The scorpion that
sheds and moves on, or the spider that spins and stays rooted.
The scorpion fights when cornered. The spider waits. The
scorpion acts. The spider plans. Both dangerous in
their own way, both masters of survival.
But survival isn’t the same as living.
I thought about that as I watched a spider crawl across the wall
one night. It moved with quiet precision, effortlessly scaling the
cracks, weaving something only it could understand. I felt envy at
first—its purpose seemed so clear. Every movement
deliberate, nothing wasted.
But webs can trap more than prey. They catch memories, regrets,
old wounds that never stop vibrating in the strands. The spider can’t
escape its own creation; it’s tethered to everything it builds. Its
web defines its world—but also confines it.
The scorpion leaves its past behind. The spider lives in
it.
I used to fear being like the spider—bound, stuck, too tangled
in what I’d made. But now I understand the spider’s patience. It
builds because it must, not because it’s trapped. Its web
isn’t a prison—it’s its way of being.
The scorpion molts; the spider spins. Two
different paths toward survival. Two ways of dealing with what the
world throws at you. One lets go. The other holds on
[Rating: Good Job/Good Job]