Written in a workshop on April 24, by Michaela Steven:
I want more than anything, in this moment, in this snapshot of time, in this second of existence, to be violent like hail.
To storm down on the unsuspecting village, and shatter glass.
I want to be the fire that burns down the forest, the bat swinging from a proud criminal’s hands, the hurricane that sweeps over a coastline. I want to answer the call in my head that says break something for once and fill the ache in my empty belly and tired feet from resisting the apple and walking on eggshells.
I want to dance in a minefield, waltz with only myself, letting my hair stand on end and my lungs hold the air inside of them too tightly.
For as I stand in front of you, I am, in reality, a rule maker, indecisive to the point of redundancy, willful until I reach danger. When I think that I’m running into the summer breeze, I’m merely sitting idly on my carpet with rug-burn on my knees.
I am so very afraid of everything inside of the world that has the ability to harm. I’m afraid of losing the precious time that I have, of being taken advantage of, of being misunderstood but nodding in agreement to the assumptions of others. The word “simpleton” makes my skin crawl, but I am beginning to recognize that I embody it completely.
However, I harbour instincts, buried in a box under what I’ve accepted as the clutter of who I am. It’s dusty, and the contents are raw and racy, but I cannot deny that it’s there and cries out every once in a while. It wants to be let loose to rain impulse from my skies and into the holes in my socks. It wants to pull my hair free from confinement and prepare my skin for contact. It wants to polish my bones and rid my heart of its tell-tale rust.
I want more than anything to be hail, but instead I’m dull sunshine, but to you, it doesn’t make a difference.