Of winds that blow hot and originate from cold places.

I will not apologize for my nature, but I will work harder to keep my wind out of your eyes. I will not apologize for my nature, but I will try to keep the ground we’re standing on from quaking. I will not apologize for my nature, but I will try not to scorch you with my sun. I will not apologize for my nature, but I will do my best to not burn you up in my atmosphere. 

I can’t put shame in my fickle foundation. It is simply not my fault that one strong gust will send me spinning. And I will not retire my firm footing. It’s not my problem that you cannot move me. It is yours for insisting I should in the first place. I understand that my winds blow hot and originate from cold places. I am asking for grace and subscription to my truth; it is never my intention to tamper with the environment.

At times I feel like a botched experiment. Pieces of a puzzle that may fit but did not originate from the same box. The end result is a confused tapestry of warped patterns that clash instead of compliment. But that’s not who I am at all. I am billions of years of evolution, I am my mother’s antibodies, I am collected traumas and triumphs, I am years and years of repainting, I am a streamlined vessel that only continues to refine.

It is not that I don’t work, it’s that there is no manual to define me. There are no factory specs for my soul. I am just a territory that has never been mapped. The terrain unfolds everyday and the page fills in with each step I take, but none of my movements can ever be anticipated. Nor should they be. I am capable of scaling new mountain faces and walking through harsher deserts everyday. Your inability to figure me out is not and has never been my weakness, it has been my one truest strength, and your need to define me is not a problem that I should adopt. It is one that you should find a way to get over.

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