**Warning: some naughty language ahead!
My heart is waking up from a slumber that spanned centuries.
She’s stretching, eyes still puffy, streaked with sleep—but slowly, ever so slowly, delicately, excitedly—she yawns, reaching her hands up to the ceiling, revealing the tiniest slice of pale midriff, tilting her head back and taking her first breath of fresh air in a long, long time.
She inhales, exhales and pauses—taking in the dewy, dappled apricot sunlight of early morning, hypnotized by tiny ice crystals that line the pale green window frame and sparkle intermittently.
Tears fall from her eyes, like the gentlest rain.
And then, outta nowhere, she lets out a fierce lion’s breath—
My heart, she’s waking the fuck up.
Is yours, too? As I step outside—as my bare feet kiss the cold emerald ground—I swear, I can hear thousands of hearts waking up right now. I swear, I can hear your heart’s primal longing for freedom and flight, too.
Let’s fly together, shall we?
Because for so long—for far too long—we have denied our true nature, trying so hard to fit in and be “normal,” trying to be less weird, less fantastic, less gritty, trying to be everything other people wanted us to be, trying to be everything we’re not.
We thought our restlessness was illegal—that our thirst for freedom was lethal.
So, instead of soaring like a tangerine tie-dyed silk scarf and illuminating the darkest skies with streaks of our wild, untamed electricity—we dulled ourselves down to 2-D grey-scale ghost versions of our 3-D magical selves. We wiped away our unquenchable thirst for spontaneity, replacing our mango-flavored wanderlust with numb hearts, dull eyes and boring zombie jobs that pleased other people but sucked our hearts dry.
For so long, we have lived deep in the shadows of sadness and shame, never quite belonging anywhere.
But our paint-splattered passion can never be taken away. The thirsty sparkle in our eyes can never be erased. And we don’t belong anywhere—we belong absolutely everywhere.
Our hearts are rumbling like thunder, rebelling deliciously—it’s a roaring revolution that can’t be stopped.
We can no longer look around, blaming life and blaming other people for our lackluster, caged existence.
Because the not-so-pretty truth is—there is no one to blame. We clipped our own wings. We stood in our own way.
Not anyone else. Not any circumstance. Not any situation.
It was us standing there, with a pair of dull scissors, so goddamn afraid to be ourselves, clipping our wild hearts to bits and pieces, sanding down our deliciously rough edges, plucking our blazin’ neon feathers and trying to find some way to be okay without flying, to be okay with being ordinary.
Let’s stop that bullshit.
Let’s embrace who we are.
Because our hearts are winged, our spirits are free—so what? why should we apologize for it?
We are wild to the bone, down to our juicy core—and we are not, for a single second, meant for stuck-stillness.
We are destined for sudden, spontaneous, spirited movement—we born for dancing bare-ass naked under the crescent moon, finding poetry in the darkest folds of loneliness, unfurling crumpled maps of long-lost dreams, exploring the exquisite beauty in every goddamn exhale and transforming constantly, like purring ocean tides.
We are cut out for lightning bolt departures, blurting out bold heartfelt truths and feeling every fucking tear-spilling, smile-inducing, heart-breaking emotion in the world, venturing relentlessly through endless mountaintop hikes and unforgettable inner expeditions.
We were born restless—we were built for flying, let’s stop denying it.
We are the breeze.
The breeze is our home. It’s where we belong.
Yes, we are breeze—
Always shifting, rearranging, sometimes unapologetically fierce and sometimes soft as as a gossamer wisp of lace.
And we can’t settle for what everyone else is doing—we refuse to settle for a life that doesn’t speak to our soul.
We want magic and truth, budding like chrysanthemums, from our fingertips.
We want something wildly extraordinary.
So let’s go get it.
Don’t wait—spread your wings today.
Spread your wings in the harsh, wintry winds, as snow pelts your skin with tiny flowers of ice, as a shy slice of sunshine illuminates your face—
Spread your wings, even if your feathers are mangy, even if you’re scared shitless, sad, grieving or brokenhearted.
Spread your wings because you are meant to—because you can’t stand living outside of your truth anymore.
Because you are not meant to be caged by a life you hate. You are meant to be set free by a life you love.
You are meant to fall madly in love with the dissolving sands of each breath, with berry-soaked sunsets and tiny purple wildflowers and falling crystal tears of the rain.
And no, you can’t be bottled—it’s not possible.
You are the breeze.
You are the breeze whistling through the swaying pine trees in every forest, everywhere.
You are the soft summer wind that whispers secrets to lovers spilling their hearts over a glass of red wine.
Let the wind take you home.
Let it thread through each strand of your hair, let it envelop you in the spirited magic you’ve been searching for.
No one can stop us but ourselves
So lets get the fuck out of
Our own way
And soar fast as the fiercest falcons
As we sail beyond the burning ashes of the past
As we barrel towards the delicious
Of the future.
Wind, give us wings.
Heart, give us fire.
It is time to taste the breeze again.
It is time for us to come home.
Author: Sarah Harvey
Editor: Yoli Ramazzina