I, a Woman. I, me. I, eternal child of light.
No longer an angry mother’s daughter, kept in a prison of emotional rage without the ability to break free, the mind poisoning, the damage to correct for what seemed like eternity, her burdens, her past, her lineage, then the she-child knowing her origin exclaiming underneath her breath, ‘I came as a free soul, your battle is killing me.'
No longer the constant mind escaping, day-dreaming, absent-appearing, sky-soaring weird child looking for heroes, preferably in the shape of her father.
The archetypal patterns that laid a foundation on a larger scale to mirror the condition between the sexes in a world with endless rows of dualities and homecomings of mergings into ones.
Now, not too concerned with past or the definition of who she was once. It’s a girl who knew only what she didn’t want. What needed to change.
The woman sees her present and what she builds. Creativity and waves of shaping the New, the life coming.
This woman can finally name what she wants. What she loves. Who she loves. Where she wants to walk. Putting one foot in front of the other.
I, a Woman. I, me. A flower, beginning to bloom.