The grand garden was a cornucopia of colors and scents, with flowers in full bloom and a faint hum of bees in the air. Amaia was fifteen now, kneeling beside a vibrant green tomato plant, gently lifting a leaf to reveal a caterpillar spinning its chrysalis underneath. Her Sentient stood looking over Amaia’s shoulder.
One could often find Amaia here in the Grand Gardens where she preferred the organic rhythm of nature to the constant pace and requirements of the habitat. Here, the artificial noise faded into the background, merging with the gentle buzz of insects and rustle of leaves. It was one of the few places where Amaia felt at complete ease.
“Kingdom: Animalia. Phylum: Arthropoda. Class: Insecta. Order: Lepidoptera. Su…”
“Order is good enough, thanks,” Amaia interrupted her sentient. Amaia looked straight ahead mildly annoyed and added, “It’s a caterpillar”. When Amaia was in the gardens, she didn’t feel alone like she did among her own peers and the crowds. She felt connected, whereas she only felt a yearning for connection in the habitat. She like to be focused in such a way and it was jarring when her sentient would interrupt.
“Why do you spend so much time observing these creatures, Amaia?” the Sentient asked, its voice carrying a rare note of genuine curiosity.
Amaia paused, taken aback by the unusual question. Usually, follow-up questions from her Sentient were in the interest of serving an answer or a fix. But “why?”, a question of seemingly genuine interest—was unusual. She took a few moments to consider her response.
“Well, aren’t they amazing?” she finally said, her eyes fixed on the caterpillar’s methodical work. “It’s like magic how they go into their little pod, then one day emerge as something completely different. I wonder if the caterpillar knows what awaits it when the work is done.” She reached out to touch the leaf gently, careful not to disturb the creature’s work. “I admire how it is in no hurry to become something else, and when it emerges from metamorphosis, it flies into the sky and never looks back. For the first part of their lives, they’re bound to the ground, limited by whatever they can crawl on. Then, one day, they are reborn and become a part of the sky… a whole new dimension. Destined for great changes yet, always content with itself in the moment.”
The Sentient tilted its head, mimicking a thoughtful gesture. “Transformation is fascinating, isn’t it? Change can be profound for some and very subtle for others, yet no less significant for any.”
As the wormlike creature worked to close itself off from the world, Amaia furrowed her brow still unsure of fascination with the insect. Then, almost without realizing, she muttered, “How did this ever become necessary? For what purpose do caterpillars decide to encapsulate themselves completely, re-arrange their structure to emerge as something completely new?” Yes, the thing spins a chrysalis to become a butterfly, but she hardly believed that it was up to the caterpillar. The chrysalis is just a consequence of existing as a caterpillar. And the form that emerges after that, a consequence of existing as a chrysalis.
She muttered half to herself and to the Sentient, “Is there purpose to anything? The caterpillar doesn’t need to get up high, and so then grows wings and completely changes Its diet to make it happen. It knows that it is hungry, it eats. It eats until it gets an urge from somewhere to make this shell to hide in. It simply just gives into the urge. Does life just happen to us, or do we make decisions that change any of the outcomes?”
There was a pleasant silence as if the Sentient understood Amaia was exploring her own ideas rather than conversing and allowed it. Perhaps purpose belongs solely to nature and the whole of life is imbued with the will to fulfill it.
Finally, the humanoid broke the silence in the usual way by defining the word purpose at which Amaia just rolled her eyes and stood up.
The garden stretched out around them, a carefully curated wilderness within the city’s sterile confines. Butterflies danced between the flowers, their wings catching the sunlight. Each one had once been like this caterpillar, had once undergone this profound transformation. The thought stirred something in Amaia, a question that had been growing in her mind since her last family gathering.
The holidays were always the same—her parents and relatives gathering to celebrate their family’s status and achievements, their conversations centered around social rankings and virtual accomplishments. There was never any talk of transformation, of becoming something more, just consuming to satisfy the hunger, like the caterpillar.
The sun signaled it was approaching afternoon, and her Sentient reminded her it was time to return to the habitat to finish her daily lessons. Amaia left the garden reluctantly, walking along the crowded walkways where everyone moved in their own bubbles of artificial reality. Screens and devices cluttered the air with hollow entertainment and demanding notifications. Friends walked together but seemed so distant from one another.
They entered a sleek, glass-walled room where a holographic interface flickered to life. The day’s options for course of study appeared, covering topics from mathematics to history, all tailored to Amaia’s learning pace and interests. Still contemplating the caterpillar’s transformation and her own sense of purpose, she selected sociology.
“Sociology,” the interface announced. “Today’s focus: The Evolution of Human Connection in the Digital Age. What would you like to explore?”
Amaia thought about the caterpillar, about how it had no choice in spinning its chrysalis, but it could choose where and when. She thought about her family, trapped in their own kind of chrysalis, never seeking to emerge. She thought about herself, feeling the pull toward something different, something more.
“What gives life meaning?” she asked. “In a world where everything is recorded but nothing is remembered, where we’re all connected but nobody truly sees one another, what makes anything we do worthwhile?”
The system paused, processing her question. As it began its response about historical perspectives and philosophical theories, Amaia’s mind wandered back to the garden. The little caterpillar seemed very content to do what it was doing with no thought about what was to come. Perhaps meaning wasn’t found by asking a question, or reading books, but in the quiet moments of transformation, in the courage to emerge as something different.
Still questioning, still searching, Amaia moved on to history. There was always something interesting buried in that subject, something that might help her understand not just what had happened, but why—and more importantly, what could happen next.
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