There is light within her, even when she forgets. Even when the world drips sorrow from her lashes and paints shadows beneath her eyes, there is still something luminous—something untamed—waiting beneath the surface.
She has known the weight of a breaking heart, the way it fractures like glass, sending cracks through the softest parts of her. She has felt the storms rage inside her skull, colours clashing, dreams slipping through trembling hands. But she is not made of endings. No, she is stitched together with beginnings, with second chances, with the kind of quiet resilience that does not announce itself, but simply is.
Even now, with the universe unraveling in tendrils of blue and violet around her, she remains. She does not drown in the chaos; she becomes it. She does not bow to the winds; she dances with them. Every tear that ever traced her cheek has watered something unseen, something growing. And when she looks to the sky, she does not see an empty expanse—she sees possibility, the quiet promise of a dawn not yet risen.
She is hope, stitched together with colour and light. Not because life has been kind, but because she has chosen to believe in the softness of tomorrow, even when today feels unsteady.
She will rise, radiant in her imperfection, knowing that every storm passes, every wound heals, and every soul—no matter how lost—can find its way back to the light.
And when they ask how she kept going, she will simply smile, knowing she was always meant to rise.
Shaping the Crazy 