Early light filters through my bedroom window,
Snaking along cream colored walls and curling long, soft fingers around
Blonde hair, heavy with the tangles of sleep.
Most mornings start like this,
A deep breath, an acceptance of a new day
Yet, I am not new.
I am chaos beautifully calmed by hope,
I am stress mixed with an eagerness to succeed.
I am mature, unmoving, yet green and malleable to new ideas.
I am the best and worst versions of myself woven together.
Carefully, I swing my sluggish, sleepy feet off the bed.
They tingle with anticipation and realization that my raw self lies not
In the strength or perseverance, the sadness or stubbornness I carry, alone.
Rather, my most honest self is the mixture of both success and failure, of promise and heartache.
Just as dusk is the truest form of both day and night,
So am I.