melancholia

The Caterpillar is smoke and fog. Smoke and fog, smog. Portmanteaus. Exactically. Smoke and fog and dreams and nightmares. Because the smoke chokes anyone that comes near, but him, because he is used to his mind's pollution. He has created his mind's pollution.

The Caterpillar needs his fog, to hide him from the curious eyes of Wonderland. No one can see through the dark smoke from his hookah except for the Caterpillar. The Caterpillar's eyes pierces through everything (smoke, fog, lies).

The air is heavy with lies and nightmares (sweetened by fairytales and childish wishes) and the Caterpillar just keeps breathing.

Oh! How the Caterpillar wishes he could be left alone! He scares away everyone with questions they can't answer ("who are you?") and finds a new place for his pipe. He doesn't mind, though, when they answer honestly (like a small little girl-I don't know who I am-At least I knew who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then...). The Caterpillar gives Alice a clue, because she is trying hard to find herself. But the Caterpillar hates the Cat (Oh! And how!), who does nothing but answer his questions with questions of his own (Who do you think I am? Who are you?). The Caterpillar can tell that the Cat knows exactly who he is, he just won't tell. Lies and secrets, lies and secrets like the blackest of smokes (still the Caterpillar sees). The Caterpillar thinks that the Cat is worse than tobacco. But the Cat laughs and still vanishes in the smoke.

The Caterpillar sees through smoke and mirrors, because he knows how to look. He gazes with obsidian eyes, bottomless, calculating and seizes the actual from the realm of possibilities.

The Caterpillar knows more about death and darkness than he'd care to, but he smokes anyway. It's all fine by him. When the Caterpillar disappears, he turns into the very smoke that he breathes (the very same smoke-the very same air-what does it matter?). The Caterpillar is never going to evaporate, he has too much substance, sunlight won't break him down, and moonlight will only help him shine anyway.

There used to be a time when the Caterpillar didn't smoke. What was he then? He was not what he is now, or perhaps in not being what he was, he was exactly what he is. Quite right. In fact, the Caterpillar is always right. And he knows it. He has never been wrong, not even once. He only changes his mind.

The Caterpillar doesn't care for tea. It's such a bore, and chamomile is hardly as soothing as his pipe. He'd rather not go to unbirthday parties or jubilees anyway. He has his own fireworks.

He knows which side of the mushroom makes you grow and which side makes you shrink, but he shall never take a bite from either. The Caterpillar is perfectly fine being just three inches tall. Just because he is a caterpillar doesn't mean he can't reach the sky. Just because he is a caterpillar doesn't mean he can't have wings.