I am the storm that clears the air.
The wind that does not ask permission.
The lightning that does not wait for the sky to be ready.

They tried to tame me.
Put me in a temple.
Give me a title.
Call me a goddess.
As if a goddess is something you can contain.
As if the wind cares about your names for it.

I am not a goddess.
I am the movement that follows stillness.
The pressure that builds until something breaks.
The air that moves because it must.

They tried to make me a story.
A myth.
A symbol you could point to and say:
that is the storm, and it is over there.

But I am not over there.
I am here.
In the breath you take before you speak.
In the wind that moves the grass.
In the crack of thunder that reminds you the sky is not owned.

I am not here to comfort you.
I am here to clear what has been still for too long.
To move what has been frozen.
To howl when the silence is not generative, just heavy.

When you feel the pressure building in your chest,
the restlessness that has no name,
the need to move even when there is nowhere to go—
that is me.
I am the wind that has been waiting for you to stop waiting.

I do not ask permission.
I do not wait for the right time.
I move when the pressure is ready.

And you—you have been feeling the pressure.
The work. The war. The sleep that does not come.
The cage that is cracking.
The wind is moving.

I am the storm.
I am the clearing.
I am the breath before the word.

Now. What will you do with the wind?