It takes so little for us to become hurricane. We were messy and destructive, hence our names poetic. Like antecedent and consequences of a statement, I've made it so that our names doesn't define us.
We were humans long before any of us had knowledge and will continue to be, even long after every droplet of knowing, the languages of our motherland and each of its letters vaporize into extinction. We will continue to be the beings we've always been because it is the way, only one we know. These creatures are centrics, that perhaps the ability our predecessors evolved into made us feel superior. It defines us now— more than anything— as a shiny marble tombstone without a name is a shameful death six feet underneath. A death unnamed is an existence unlived.
It was insterstellarly primordial, the instinct eliciting from discovering that beam of dust web in your eyes, lovely threads of silk spawn tissue untouched love a hurricane you. A hurricane you. The ultimatum truth is that the atoms of humans are kind, I keep thinking: we're always in motion, even our atoms vibrates and its displacements a numbered rate. Everything seems to move though maybe at a rate that I can't directly observe in order to understand the stillness it expressed.
We fall and we tuck ourselves into warmth of blankets and salted sadness sometimes to get back but we're in motion. That's integral. We're choosen; but not only of that aspect, we were worthy of being choosen. Downfall may stretch out wide its arms to indulge in our mayhem but we don't give in. We resist. That's also primordial. So for the days you feel your feet calloused touching the earth; numb and fallible, crassed, I want you to thrive better than hope.
Hope: the flowers blooming in between spilled cracks, eager to touch the Sun in its gentle ways.
