There is this particular warmth found in the cooling weather. A bit of a paradox, but then again so is my mind. I love to just lay on the sturdy, green surface of the communal bench; staring up, I see a spiderweb of contrast. Shaking poinsettia leaves, shimming against the tie dye sky, both of grey and blue; while the skeletal system of branches creates a strange array of patterns, nonetheless a beautiful sight. Born in red, rushing, heat, my attire is not prepared for such a chilly ambiance. Instead, I lay in an olive green sun dress, that flows along my body until it pools at my crossing thighs. Brown hair was twisted and knotted, looping into a cinnamon bun. My left hand rests on my stomach, while my right feels the smooth and bumpy planes of my small lips. The movement is almost therapeutic and unconscious, as my index finger roams the peaks of my upper lip and then dips into the pout of my bottom lip.

If I were to squint and blur the surrounding apartment buildings, I’d enter a forest somewhere distant and isolated. But, as a city girl, I am surrounding by a different type of landscape. A concrete jungle that constantly grows at a monstrous speed. Our stars can be found through life breathing at night, windows twinkling with different individual entities. Our street symphony consists of night chit-chat, traffic and the distant drone of house music.

I feel the breeze carry me upward, moving through my dress, under my chest, and across my face. It’s as though mother nature is acknowledging my existence. “I am present, I am real,” she reminds me. Just as the unnoticed ant works for the greater good of home and the force of a storm humbles all, I am too a working form of impact. The relief of existing is vastly serene. To know that I am alive and can enjoy the splendors of each day, that time still stands before me and my spirit can still influence, is delightful. I am not deceased, 6 feet under and roaming Earth as energy. No. My fingers tips can touch, feel, and cause sensations. My lips can scream, whisper, whimper, and laugh at all. My eyes can absorb the blatant and the hidden.

Although I lay alone, for once in 18 years, I do not feel alone. I am content. Often in solitude, I constantly search for the missing hole in my chest. And, no, not in the romantic sense. A polaroid camera, constantly snapping my surroundings, only to rapidly shake the photo and discover an average image. I fuel this cycle of disappointment through my silent expectations. Today, I expect nothing. Warmth flows through my veins, as the temperature drips. The native dancer within, shuts her eyes and circles the flame, a trance of sanity against the solid drum of my heart.

To become a storm of change, I must accept the faults, flaws and frustrations the human race produces. I must understand them, master them, and then free them. To waste my time, yelling at a speechless God, is an excellent way to waste my time. But, to understand life and man’s complexties, conquer my own turmoil and then set forth to produce new, that is honorable.

There is no attraction or positivity produced from an individual who only knows what they hate. Hatred is easy, hatred is a fundamental of many simple minded people. To understand what I don’t like and to choose to speak of what I love, that is power. Hope, love and happiness all combined become a much more compelling tool than hate. To only hate is an act of suicide. Hatred becomes a collective of thoughts that do not even belong to oneself, the loss of an individual can be sourced back to hatred.

Mother nature curls around me once more, a large gust of wind raising the hairs on my arms. A stream of air carries me upward once more. The small wisps of my hair quiver and whip across my face. I feel both small and large. The peak of my mountain seems plausible suddenly. Tis a warming thought, as the weather cools.