I only met you after I met myself. I only saw you after spending time walking down a corridor of mirrors, forcing myself to see this vessel in every light and from every angle.
God, Goddess, Creator, Mother Nature, Universe? I am unsure of who created me. Who took the stars, crushed them into fine powder, and poured them into this vessel. Who took the clay of the planets and molded me into this imperfect being, filled with the magic of the universe.
You cannot hustle 24 hours straight for seven days a week. You need rest.
You may have imperfections, but we all do—that’s what makes us human! You may have made mistakes, but those mistakes don’t define you—they don’t make your entire existence a mistake.
No one else determines my worth but me.
You have the ability to be your own shelter.
“You have to fight for what you love.”
“You have to fight for the person you love.”
At this moment, as you sit firmly grounded to the Earth, you are also grounded within yourself.
What comes after the butterflies fluttering away and the rose-tinted glasses cracking is more often than not written off as unromantic, because that is when reality settles in.
I am sick of my own rage. I rage and rage—not because I am the same color as dirt, but because I am treated as if that is exactly what I am.