My basement is contrived of yellow. Varying in shades of auburn to goldenrod, the main room incites a sense of warmth and comfort. In the corner, there is a slight strip of a window, and at just the right late-afternoon hour, there shines a warm beam of golden light, and on one of these particular afternoons, the spotlight highlighted a small black blotch in the yellow carpet. It is not unusual to come across stains in our carpet, but this particular splotch seemed to be mobile. Actually, he was scooting at a rather sloth-like pace away from the window light that made his presence known. A “he” it must be, for although it would not allow for the continued existence of the species, I assume all caterpillars to be male. This small fellow scooted along, merely a puff of dark lint, the only black blemish in an otherwise perfectly yellow room.
Curiously, I considered his station, and in my contemplation I couldn’t figure just how he had arrived so soundly in my basement. The window in the corner, was framed by cinderblock, and insulated by expanding putty. To enter the room from this channel would have been an impossible feat, yet to come by way of the door, he would have had to survive a flight of stairs, two dogs, a cat, and 5 pairs of winter boots wielded blunderingly by a family oblivious to his existence. I was amazed at his supposed tenacity, the energy it must have taken him to traverse to such an exotic destination. Perhaps the energy he took to move his prospects is something like the energy it takes to climb the insurmountable hill of college applications, and perhaps this fellow and I have something in common: his fate was as muddled as mine. After filling out a continuous influx of forms, I am awaiting my providence while the admissions boards decide my worth to them. Out in the adult world, my potential is yet to be realized, but stuck in my yellow basement home, neither the caterpillar nor myself would have the ability to fully emerge form our cocoons. I may never find a college; he may never be a butterfly.
At least, not living in my basement he wouldn’t. He could never survive in a place without greenery or dirt or muck; living here without sustenance would be a death sentence. My former impress turned to pity as I realized his fate; I felt a surge of emotion at the thought of the caterpillar’s doomed end. How sad it seemed to me that one of God’s own creatures is fated to fade away before growing into his specie’s intended design. With this thought I felt my life seemed invariably linked to his; I wanted him to realize his potential as a butterfly for his sake as much as for my own. We had to get out.
Following a brief interlude in which I took to research this caterpillar, one can never be too educated on any such subject, I snatched up a napkin to use as his transport. My caterpillar friend was sitting in exactly the spot I left him, waiting for his fate to come into full fruition. Assuredly I devised a plan to coax him onto the napkin without risking squashing the poor bastard. As a first attempt, I hoped that an intentional, directional exhalation would be enough to drive him forward, but out of stubbornness, and a desire for something like independence, he dared not budge. Following my first failed plot, I tried to scoot the napkin towards him one millimeter at a time, but he only slinked backwards. Finally, in the gentlest way manageable, I scooped him into my hand and delicately deposited him on the napkin. At my touch, He curled up in surprise, preparing to defend himself in a very armadillo-like fashion. Curled so soundly in the napkin, I imagined him to be snoozing, picturing a stream of snoring “z’s” escaping with each exhalation. This image relaxed me somehow, though I wanted to save him, it seemed cruel now. Why wake him from such sound slumber? Perhaps, even then, I sensed the worthlessness in my plight.
Feeling no particular sense of urgency, as is my general temperament, I trotted up the stairs and towards the backdoor at a leisurely pace, planning to release the fellow into the wild. When I slid open the back door, however, I realized the catastrophic error in my thought process. 
When I opened my back door, I was blasted backwards by a violent, bone-chilling wind. My eyes met with a desolate winter scape, pale and lifeless. The release into the out of doors was as hopelessly fated as entrapment in the basement; there was no more sustenance for survival outside in the dreary wintery world than there was in my house, and as I stared into the dead, ice-plated lawn, I felt the sensation of my heart plummeting into my stomach. The caterpillar’s fate and mine became devastatingly clear.