It starts as a hum electricity buzzing beneath my skin,a surge in the back of my brain.The tate of defiance and tenacitymetallic on my tongue.The words don’t have to be perfect.Why do I always get hung up on the perfection?Perhaps the act of creation itself is beautiful -messy, imperfect, non-linear but beautiful all the same.Our souls, our very deepest recessesunknowable with singular definitions tucked away on a dictionary page. We are light.We are dark.We are all the infinite possibilities in between.Stardust, molecules, infinite vessels of all that was and ever will be.So much possibility, so much hope, so much beautywill never be contained in a single word or experience.As I unclench my proverbial palm,these imperfect words drift into the cosmos.A piece of my soul satisfied by the joy and wonder of creation itself.

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