Spring fills the air, calling a mistress home to reluctantly wait for her return from a long day, a day where she lost her mind, where she lost her bearings. It is in the shine of each ray that she is found once more—found in what is important, found in what is lost. In her breath, in the essence of her, and in the untamed sound of her voice—sharp, loud, unapologetic. It is the sweetness of spring, the salt and breeze that weave through her hair, drawing out a voice she had forgotten—a voice as natural as it is subtle, never meant to fall, never meant to freeze.
Through the winter of frown lines, desperate for air, desperate for light—each rising sun brings her closer to the new spring light, whispering: It’s time to blossom, it’s time to grow.
The Voice in Your Head Isn’t Alone 
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