You can not tell me the seasons cycle through a year, just like that. Not when I've lived autumn and summer in an hour, in my heart. Not when I've seen brown leaves raining on a summer's day.
You can not tell me we need the strong people and the gentle people, as if they are different things. There is a woman who cries in her bathroom for less than a minute, softness falling and fading from her heart, before going out again to gently guide her children, make their dinner, take the mail when it arrives at the door. There is a protester embracing cannon-shot water who is there because he dreams like a wild white bird.
Long ago, I used to paint my hair orange, same colour as my boots. Now I shift uneasily between earthy and pale, as if I am a fashion piece and not an island, a hill-haunted sky, a story untold beneath all the stories I tell, a secret at night. I have a friend who says her style is comfort. She wears clothes not to show who she is, but to care for who she is. Really, there are no styles, only poetry from our hearts.
There are no creations, only conversations with the universe.