I approached. Not with a determined step, not like one rushes toward something they want to understand or possess, but with that dense slowness of bodies summoned by something other than themselves.
I wasn't going fast. It wasn't caution, nor fear. It wasn't curiosity either. Nothing in me was trying to see, to know, to discover.
I advanced simply, because I couldn't do otherwise.
Because something, in the very weaving of this space, in the contained beating of this cocoon, was pulling me deeper than any reason.
As if each step toward it was already written, inscribed, sewn into my muscles, into my breath, into my oldest memory.
That cocoon wasn't calling me. It projected no sign, no whisper, no light trying to attract me. It stretched nothing toward me. It didn't call me. And it was precisely that… which made it more powerful. It wasn't calling me, no. It was waiting for me.
Simply.
Silently.
