I spent years looking at the sky,waiting for a hand to reach through the cloudsand rearrange the wreckage of my days.I treated my life like a borrowed coat,complaining about the fit, the fraying edges,the way the cold seeped through the seams of my indecision.
No more waiting for the wind to change.I am the wind.I am the builder and the wrecking ball.The ink is wet, the page is white,and for the first time,I am not afraid of the pen. Want to explore this further? HЙ™yatim ЖЏllЙ™rimdЙ™
Depending on what you had in mind, we could go a few different ways: I spent years looking at the sky,waiting for
But then, a shift.A voice—not from above, but from the marrow of my bones—reminded me that the keys were never lost;they were forged in the heat of my own palms. Depending on what you had in mind, we
It is a terrifying weight, this sovereignty.To realize that the "destiny" I blamedwas just the dust I refused to sweep.My hands are scarred, yes.They have fumbled, they have gripped ghosts,they have been empty for longer than I care to admit.
But look at them now.They are the only tools I need.They can plant seeds in the ash of yesterday.They can write a script where the victim finally stands.They can bridge the gap between "I wish" and "I am."