Do not pity me my burning.
I was never meant for gentleness.
I am built of horizon and hunger,
and when I rise again,
it's because there's more to reach.

They tell us to stay small.
To be soft.
To smooth the edges
that catch in their throats.
But what is a life lived quietly?
Even the Sky shouts in colour.
Even clouds break open
when they've held too much.

We've been broken too:
in kitchens,
in midnight nurseries,
in the long silences
between someone leaving
and the door finally closing.

And still,
we find ourselves again,
stripped down to the core,
bare-handed and breathing.
There is power in the rebuilding.
There is holiness in refusal.

I never fear the Storm.
Now that I know it's only change
dressed in lightning.
It tears, yes,
but it clears the air,
and the world smells cleaner after.

Some days, the wind sings through me.
Some days, I sing back.
It isn't peace.
It's the sound of a heart refusing to shatter.
You know that sound.
Every woman does.

Every ruin becomes a seed in time.
Every storm leaves a path of light.
I've learned to gather what remains,
to call it holy,
to call it mine.

Penned by my hand on the 15th of Daedalan, in the year 987 AF.